a curious trunk explores for bananas

Some kids go to summer camp.  Some go to Spanish, Bible or Hebrew camp.  This kid went to elephant camp.  

I spent the majority of two days last week at Thom’s Pai Elephant Camp riding and playing with elephants.  Although the big guys (or gals in this case) were cool, I’m afraid I can only give elephant camp a 5 out of 10.  

Along with six other people, I kicked off the first morning feeding bananas to a group of four elephants, all girls.  The elephants go absolutely nuts for bananas and to get them, they performed many tricks, some orchestrated, some not.  One elephant would play the harmonica.  Another would stick out her tongue.  Anything for a banana.  I was trying to solicit a hug from one (just hold the banana behind your back and she’ll wrap her trunk around you in an elephant version of a bear hug) when her neighbor decided to get in on the action.  In a matter of seconds I had trunks swirling all around me, tickling and playing tug of war with me trying to get at the bananas.  Unlike the Balinese monkeys and despite the size difference, however, it was all in good fun.  I sustained no bites or stomped toes.

Then we climbed aboard and went for a two hour elephant ride.  To get on their back, some of the elephants permit you to stand on their trunk and they hoist you up over their heads.  Others extend a leg as your route to their back.  My elephant, Ot (which ironically means “Little Frog” preferred the former.  Ot earned her bananas that day giving 3 of us a lift for the tour.  Except for a blanket, we basically rode bareback.  

Ot gives me a quick lift to my room ... and a photo opp

Some things surprised me about the elephants. Their trunks, which they use playfully as well as to snatch food, are not soft as I’d thought they would be.  In fact, there’s nothing soft about an elephant (except for their tongues).  They are rough and scratchy with 3 inch long prickly hairs that feel surprisingly close to a toilet brush.  Imagine two hours of this toilet brush abrading your calves as every two seconds a rock hard spine bangs against one side of your tail bone and then the other … and you’ve got yourself an elephant ride.  Oh, I forgot the roller coaster portion where we headed down a steep slope with nothing to hold on to.  Although Ot was incredibly careful with her footing, gravity just didn’t permit we three riders to remain in our original positions.  We all slid down toward the head and ended up piled on poor Ot’s neck. I was convinced that we would all topple down her trunk at any second – it was really quite frightening.  Sweet Ot  was gracious about the whole thing allowing us to re-situate when we did finally make it to the bottom of the hill.  Although, later at the river, she was following orders when she repeatedly hosed us down with water and then shook us off her back, dumping us in the water, I’m not convinced that she didn’t do so happily as a little bit of payback.  

So I have to conclude that in general, elephant riding isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be.  As I reflect on all the photos I’ve seen of Asian kings being carried in regal style on a pachyderm, I find it hard to believe that monarchs would allow themselves to be so abused.  Needless to say, although the exorbitant funds I paid to attend elephant camp included as much riding as I wanted, the first experience was more than enough and I passed on the rest.  

banana tree snacks

As a result, playing with the elephants became the highlight of elephant camp.  I soon discovered, however, that in the absence of bananas, the elephants are generally uninterested in much interaction … and it wasn’t long before the camp ran out of bananas.  Looking for something to do, I was happy to accompany some of the camp employees who said they were going to chop down bananas.  That should be interesting, I thought. Turns out, they chopped down entire banana trees!  No surprise if I really thought about it – elephants eat EVERYTHING afterall.  I was interested to see that banana trees are really more of a large plant than a tree.  Their stems have large cells with lots of water; not woody at all.  I counted 27 banana trees that were loaded into the pickup truck.  The driver told me that what seemed like a large number of trees to me would only last the camp’s four elephants one day! 

Later in the day, I went with the mahouts (elephant handlers) to “put the elephants to bed in the jungle” (this is phrasing from the camp advertisement).  The girls were walking single file down a narrow path and I was walking behind them talking with one of the mahouts when I had the once in a lifetime (I hope!) experience of being farted on by the last elephant.  NOT one of the camp highlights!  I can tell you from first hand experience that elephant farts are WAY stinkier than dog farts … and we all know how bad those can be!  

Thom's Pai Elephant Camp

Smelly wind instruments aside, the elephants and the mahouts were great and I give them two thumbs up.  Thom’s Elephant Camp doesn’t fare so well.  I never got the “elephant training” instruction that I paid for and repeatedly asked for.  Additionally, the camp was amazingly stingy with their resources.  My fees included 3 meals a day.  By my choice, I only ate one of those each day, but was hunted down like a thief for 15 baht (about $0.40) when I took a soda from the fridge.  Also, despite there being many empty bunglalows available, Thom insisted I share her bungalow since a shared bungalow was what I had paid for.  Two other “long-timers” at the camp also expressed some displeasure toward the end of their stay regarding similar issues.  Bottom line … if you’re in the area, stop by and feed the elephants bananas (which you can do for free), go for a ride if the above description appeals to you but otherwise, save your money and skip the camp. 

Now that I’ve checked monkeys, tigers and elephants off the list, I guess I need to seek out some bears … or maybe the elusive Irawaddy dolphin.

Videos from elephant camp coming soon … I hope!

fried worms/caterpillars

Have you ever considered how gracious you could/would be if someone hosted you for dinner and presented a big plate of fried grub worms as the premier dish?  Believe it or not, I did consider that a number of years ago when I was reading an article about food in Africa … and I was dying to go to Africa.  I concluded at the time that I would not be able to stomach it and would have to find a way to politely refuse.  I found out first hand tonight that I was wrong. 

I went out for another of my beloved “windy mountain road” drives today, this time headed toward Chiang Mai.  Thirty minutes out of Pai, I came across one of the ubiquitous armed guard checkpoints.  This time I was determined to charm the scary men with guns.  We had some initial confusion. I misunderstood the question “Where are you coming from?” to mean where I was literally coming from, not my country of origin, so that warranted a passport inspection.  

While the one guard was checking my papers, another was inquiring whether I was a Christian.  Rather than get into a discussion about spirituality which I was certain would be misinterpreted, I answered with a simple “Yes. Are you Buddhist?”  “Yes, Buddhist.”  For some reason, intuition told me I should wear my string “Buddha protection” necklace given to me by the monk from my previous road trip.  I pulled it out from under my shirt and showed the guard. “Look! Buddha!” I said hoping to make a connection.  He smiled and pulled three large amulets on a chain from under his shirt.  “More Buddhas,” he laughed.  When I asked whether I could take his picture with his Buddha amulets, all the guards cracked up.  I got my passport back … and a great photo.  

Thai checkpoint guard showing off his Buddha amulets

I continued on my way, anxious to find all the roadside stands that I remembered from my bus trip to Pai on this very road.  Like the road to Mae Hong Son, this one was incredibly twisting with many hairpin curves.  I have definitely improved my motorbike skills since driving in Bali.  Unlike those amazing Balinese mountain roads that were wasted on me a month ago (I tooled along at a pathetic 5-10 kpm), I embraced these curves with gusto.  Safe gusto (so don’t worry, Mom and Dad!) … but gusto nonetheless.  In fact for the first hour of the trip, it was all about the driving because there were no roadside stands in sight.  

Another thirty minutes of driving and my gas tank was just a little below half full. Someone had told me that there was a gas station 50 km out of Pai.  Where was it?  I still had a way to drive and wanted to make sure I’d have plenty of gas to get back.  I was, of course, looking for a full sized station (the gas-in-a-bottle roadside stands that were so prevalent in Bali are few and far between in Thailand).  I got a chuckle out of the gas station when I finally found it.  If not for the faded “GASOLINE” sign, I would easily have mistaken the gas “pumps” for soda fountains or different flavored syrups to pour on shaved ice.  The attendant literally had to pump the gas into the clear dispenser which pushed it into a hose.  She held the hose up and gravity caused it to flow into my tank.  Interesting.

gasoline "station"

 Soon I came across some roadside stands selling fruit.  There was some kind of fruit in front that I didn’t recognized.  I inquired about it and the friendly  people running the stand offered me some of the fruit they were eating.  Excellent!  They first fed me pomello which is similar to a grapefruit but larger and less juicy.  I love grapefruit and pomello as well.  They were pleased when I pronounced it delicious in Thai (aroi) and offered me some nuts to try.  The kept feeding me and I kept saying “aroi.”  I was beginning to feel like a stray dog that had wandered up and successfully begged for food … not exactly the impression I was going for.  So I bought a pomello from them and invited them to share it with me.  Soon, I was also sharing the floor of their fruit stand and we were exchanging stories and laughs (the son, ironically called Pop, spoke very good English and facilitated the discussion).  In addition to fruit, the family also sold orchids which Pop told me they had “liberated” from the jungle.  I kept thinking how much I would like bring some home to my Mom and her friend Shirley (both Master Gardeners), but figured I’d have a tough time getting it through customs.  

Pop with a pomello

At Pop’s suggestion, I drove down the road another 15km toward a waterfall he’d described as especially beautiful.  On the way, I came across an interesting temple that had 26 fairy figurines guarding the steps to the top. The artwork inside was stupendous.   

After also stopping for a quick lunch at a roadside restaurant (some of the best Phad Thai I’ve eaten for 20 Baht – about $.60), I made it to the waterfall … which was gorgeous.  I also marveled at an amazing stand of bamboo trees (which always make me think of sweet Kem Alexander who has her own impressive bamboo forest right in the heart of lovely Chattanooga, Tennessee). Even more than the waterfall, I enjoyed the Thais that I met there.  One group was having a picnic and invited me to join them.  While one of the guys serenaded the group with his guitar and two other group members took turns reading each others’ palms, I had a chat with Sao, a lovely young woman who was a Sociology professor at Chiang Mai University.  We discussed art, religion, sociology and travel.  Definitely my kind of gal!  Sao told me she was moving to Bangkok next week to start work with an NGO helping people from neighboring countries immigrate to Thailand and find jobs.  We exchanged phone numbers and made plan to get together in Bangkok when I travel there in a couple weeks. 

the lovely Mak Fa waterfall and the friendly Thais who welcomed me

At this point it was 2:00 and time to head back to ensure that I arrived in Pai before dark (curvy mountainous roads in the darkness would definitely ruin my beautiful day).  About twenty minutes north of the waterfall, I spotted an older Lisu (hilltribe) woman in traditional Lisu clothing walking in the same direction I was driving and carrying a large, heavy looking pomello.  I had been wanting to meet some hilltribe people but the treks to their villages seemed less than authentic so I had passed on those opportunities.  This opportunity, however, rang of authenticity.  

I pulled over and asked her if she wanted a ride.  I thought she said she was going to Pai, but many of the villages nearby have two to three word names, most of which include Pai or Pae so I figured it was probably one of those and couldn’t be more than 15 to 20 minutes away.  “Sure, I’m headed in that direction,” I told her.  She hopped on.  My first hitchhiker!

“Chan chuu Beverly ka. Kun chuu arai ka?” (My name is Beverly. What is your name?) was my attempt to start a conversation.  She didn’t seem to understand.  “Sabaidee mai ka?” (How are you?) I tried again. Still only embarrassed laughter.  I concluded that either my Thai accent was really bad (although other people all day had understood those very phrases) or she spoke a Lisu dialect and not Thai.  Either way, we rode in silence.  

The night before, I had invited a Thai friend to join me for the day’s motorbike trip.  When discussing the possibility, I told her we would have to go on separate bikes because, although I could drive double, I didn’t dare do so on the curvy mountain roads of Highway 1095.  After 30 minutes of driving the Lisu woman with no stop at a nearby village, I concluded that when she said Pai, she indeed meant Pai … so driving double on 1095’s curvy mountain roads was exactly what I ended up doing … for two hours!  I must say that my confidence in my motorbike skills is rapidly increasing.  We made it back to Pai safely and in good time.  And although the checkpoint guards gave us a curious look, there was no passport inspection this time.

Since we were driving in silence, I had plenty of time to think.  As I came to realize that I was taking this woman all the way to Pai, I began to hope that perhaps she would invite me to meet the other Lisu people in her village; maybe even invite me for dinner.  I could just envision it … my new Lisu friends.  You have to be careful what you wish for…

When we arrived in Pai, she directed me to her home.  As I had hoped, she invited me in and mimed eating and drinking.  Excellent!  I was already imagining the new Lisu friends I would add to my list of interesting people I’d met through my journeys.  She indicated I should sit on the floor next to another older woman who was just finishing a bowl of rice.  Although sitting was the last thing my poor bum wanted to do after having ridden on a motorbike all day, I complied and pulled up a piece of floor.  

I could hear her rumbling around the kitchen.  The other woman who also seemed not to speak Thai fixed a bowl of rice for me, but motioned that I should wait to eat it.  In Thailand, it’s typical at family meals for each person to have their own bowl of rice and to share several different dishes that they spoon on top of the rice.  Sure enough, in a few moments my hitchhiker returned and proudly set down four bowls of toppings to share:  a bowl of boiled vegetables that looked fabulous, a bowl that had two brown hard boiled eggs and some juice (interesting), a bowl of champagne colored gelatin (dessert?) and, the kicker … a bowl of fried caterpillar/grub worms (Oh my God! You’ve got to be kidding!).  

“Please, please” my hitcher gestured.  I happily helped myself to a serving of the vegetables.  When I only took a small spoonful of the worms and jelly, my host took matters into her own hands.  The worms were obviously the most prized delicacy and she mounded them on my plate, making sure I got a larger portion than anyone else.  Mmmm-hmmm…

Luckily, two days before, my friend Daniela and I had decided to be somewhat adventurous eaters and we split a bag of fried crickets.  Once we got over imagining what we were placing in our mouths, they were actually quite good.  The gooey insides that you see when you step on one apparently get all fried away and they taste kind of like a chicken-flavored potato chip, only less crispy.  Although I had a harder time mentally with the mounds of caterpillars on my plate (somehow one at a time is a lot easier to swallow than a mouthful – pardon the pun), I just made up my mind not to offend my host … and down the hatch they went.  Like the crickets, the gooey insides seemed to have been fried away … and they were actually pretty good.  I would never have guessed that I’d be telling you this, but I even went back for seconds. 

Tomorrow I start training at an elephant camp.  It’s never boring in Thailand ….

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

Smiley monks, caves with coffins and free range cattle. These are things I’ve found along the road as I’ve taken my motorbike out for day trips around Thailand.  A couple of days ago I drove my motorbike toward the village of Mae Hong Son on the Burmese border.  I didn’t actually make it to Mae Hong Son.  That wasn’t the goal.  The point of the trip was to be out on those fabulous windy mountain roads (I think I’m addicted to motorbike riding) observing and exploring whatever came my way.  

The first thing that came my way was a curve in the road followed by many many more.  The road signs indicated this would be the case all day long.  Speaking of road signs, I have found most of the signage in Thailand to be straightforward and clear.  Like the picture of a squiggly line.  Got it.  “Curves up ahead all day long.”  Or the sign written in Thai but with the English “subtitle” “Sharp curve ahead.”  Also clear.  Other signs were a bit more confusing though.  I still haven’t figured out one with a picture of a tree falling, a fire and deer running.  My mind reads, “Danger, Will Robinson!  Danger!” but I doubt that’s what the Thai authorities had in mind when they printed that one up.  If anyone knows what this means (or wants to take some guesses for the sake of fun), please be my guest and leave a comment!

it's gonna be a curvy one, guys

this sign also makes sense

... but what the heck does this sign mean?

Another unique thing about driving in Thailand is that there are photos of the King posted everywhere (and I don’t mean Elvis).  The Thai people LOVE their King!  

King Bhumibol Adulyadej is a constitutional monarch, but because of his tremendous popularity with the Thai people, he has considerable influence in the county’s political matters.  He is thought to be one of the richest men in the world and has used much of his wealth to fund many development projects, particularly in rural areas of Thailand.   

roadside billboard of the King and Queen

 As a result, the Thai people love him and place photos of him everywhere.  They certainly all have a photo of the king in their home.  I even noticed photos of the king hanging on the walls of the bamboo huts in the very poor hilltribe village that I trekked through to get to the Muay Thai gym.  And on the roadside, there are billboard posters of the King everywhere. Although there are plenty in which he’s just posing and looking “royal,” many of these billboards portray him in “civil servant action mode” working with the people, signing some document, playing his saxophone.  

Passing by the King (or rather his billboards), the many curves and the signs warning me about the many curves, I came across a unique sign announcing an interesting attraction:  Coffin Caves.  I had read just the night before about a group of caves in North Thailand in which archeologists had recently discovered coffins that were over 1200 years old.  How many coffin caves could there be?  I decided to check it out.  

the guardian of the Coffin Caves?

I approached an official looking bamboo hut to pay the admission fee and was surprised to learn that there was no charge.  Strange.  Everything in Thailand has a charge; incidentally, it’s always higher for foreigners than for locals.  I followed their pointing hands to a path leading into the woods.  Not far in, sitting on the branch of a young bamboo tree was a small stuffed bear.  I have no idea what he was doing there.  Maybe a child had put her bear there and then forgot it when she left.  Or maybe someone placed the bear in the tree as a guardian for the Coffin Caves.  Either way, it made me smile and think of my friend Glen Billy who not only has an affinity for bears and rabbits, both stuffed and real, but who’s writing a sweet children’s book about them.  How’s that book coming, Glen?

bamboo ladder

I wandered farther up the path which became steeper the farther I went.  Someone had installed bamboo stairs and eventually, where it got really steep, a bamboo ladder.  I climbed the ladder, hiked up some more stairs and my eyes perked up at the sight of some interesting looking rock caves that appeared weathered, gnarled and twisted (there’s not enough room for all the photos here but I have photos of this in the “Photos of Her Adventure” section of the blog).  After I took my photos, I looked for an approach to continue on the path which seemed to disappear at this rock face.  As if on cue, a Thai man walked up carrying a small cup of paint in one hand and a paint brush in the other.   He introduced himself as Dom, a scientist working for an NGO in neighboring Sappong to study the caves and open them for tourist visits.  His plan for the day was to paint directional signs on the rocks because it wasn’t obvious where people should look to find the coffins.  I’ll say.

Dom put down his cup of paint and offered his guiding services.  I remain incredibly grateful because without him, I can assure you I not only would never have known where to look, I certainly wouldn’t have had the courage to climb the rocks to get to the coffins.  The first move that I was trying to figure out when Dom approached required us to essentially suction-cup ourselves to a rock and hope that gravity would suspend itself for 5-10 seconds while we hoisted ourselves from one rock to another three feet to the right.  Dom made this move look easy and gave me the confidence I needed.  It was impossible to do the contortionist-suction-cup maneuver with my backpack so I handed it and my camera up to Dom, sucked in every part of my body, imagined I was Spiderman (or Spiderwoman … at that moment gender was the last thing on my mind) and climbed the rock to safety.  Holy cow! I never would have figured that out on my own!  

the stunningly beautiful Coffin Caves

The next bit wasn’t bad.  Lots of climbing.  And contorting. At one point, Dom said “Only 10 more kilometers.”  I chalked it up to bad translation or a twisted sense of humor on Dom’s part and hoisted on.  Dom was anxious to show me the coffins, but I was amazed at the caves themselves and kept stopping to marvel … and of course to take photos.  

We finally got to the first cave with a coffin.  The coffin was a large tree that had been hollowed out to hold a body.  If the tree had any bark on it, it was entirely removed.  The tree trunk coffin was suspended in the air by three to four other similar hollowed out tree trunks.  Between the little English he knew and the little Thai I had learned, Dom was able to explain to me that the coffins were about 1,250 years old and that no one knew who was buried there or why they were buried in this manner. 

the main coffin at the Coffin Caves

The “room” of this particular cave didn’t get much light and the marine battery placed there to light the room wasn’t working.  No problem, I told Dom.  Although my “big” camera doesn’t have a flash (a definite downside to the Canon 5D), my little one does … that’s in the seat of my motorbike out in the parking lot!  Argh!  I couldn’t believe it!  There was NO WAY that I was going to hike all that way back to my bike to retrieve my Powershot that I thought I had put in my backpack.  Oh well.  I set my ISO to 1600 and opened my aperture as wide as it would go (sorry, getting into geeky camera speak there), I made my body into a tripod as best I could, a technique I learned in photo school, exhaled, stood as still as I possibly could and took the photo.  It’s amazing how much your body moves in 2.5 seconds even when you feel like you’re as solid as a rock.  I took four photos in this manner and the last one turned out ok.  Still fuzzy and not great, but here it is nonetheless.  Thankfully the other cave with a coffin was open to the sunlight and well lit so photographing it was easy.  Getting there was not.

The jeans I was wearing probably canceled out the fact that I’m pretty limber.  Dom, who was both limber and wearing athletic pants and had obviously clambered this route a time or two, would fly on ahead and then wait for me directing “Put your right foot there.  Now your left one on that rock.  Step there.  Turn around and go up/down backwards.” As I said before, without his direction, I wouldn’t have seen any of these magnificent caves.  

scrambling around in the caves

posing with a coffin (never thought I'd be writing THAT subtitle!)

After we made it to the second coffin cave and I took a few shots, Dom suggested I climb over to where the coffin was and he would take my photo with it.  Down. Up. Down. Up. I made it.  Dom directed me to cross to the opposite side of the coffin which required me to climb awkwardly through the two log poles that were holding it up.  I envisioned a Charlie Brown moment where I would lose my balance, instinctively grab one of the logs and send the 1250+ year old coffin crashing to the ground, probably crushing myself in the process as well as destroying this amazing architectural find.  I didn’t even want to consider how profoundly stupid I would appear in the headlines. I was kind of surprised that Dom was encouraging me to climb around over there and not envisioning the same headlines.  Such was his enthusiasm for sharing his passion I guess.

To protect us both, “Don’t touch the logs. Don’t touch the logs,” became my mantra as I limbo’d my way through them for the fabulous photo opp that Dom apparently envisioned.  Safe on the other side of the coffin supports, I finally looked in Dom’s direction.  I concluded that the wrong one of us was holding the camera.  While I had been twisting myself into a pretzel to avoid touching the log supports, Dom had morphed into a mountain goat and was now perched with one foot each on two pointy rocks that looked like they could impale someone (Technically the term might be stalagmites, but they didn’t appear to be formed from dripping so you scientist types can get off my back.  We’ll go with the term “pointy rocks” for the time being).  Standing this way, Dom seemed to be almost floating in midair.  

perched on the pointy rocks

“Dom! YOU are the tremendous photo opp here!” I shouted.  “Let me climb over there, get the camera from you, climb back and take your photo. This shot of you is incredible!”  Turns out, Dom’s camera shy.  He took my photo by the coffin instead (OK, I had earned that one with the limbo) and then insisted that we switch places so he could photograph me perched precariously on the two pointy rocks.  “Be the mountain goat. Be the mountain goat,” became my new mantra.   Once safely there, I only regret that I didn’t strike a more dramatic pose.  I guess at the time, I still wasn’t sure I was “safely there.”

There were more caves with coffins, but these were being researched by archeologists and were closed to tourists so after all the photo opps, Dom and I clambered (rather, Dom glided and I clambered) back to the “suction cup rock.”  He told me he was planning to build a bamboo ladder here.  I agreed, that would definitely make at least that portion of getting to the coffins easier.  He also shared with me his concerns that even if he clearly marked with paint how to get to the coffins, that many people would not be able to make it.  I agreed.  Given all the precarious climbing we’d done that day, I couldn’t imagine the caves as a viewing opportunity for the masses.  Dom definitely had his work cut out for him.  

After thanking him profusely, I left Dom with his cup of paint and slid down the suction cup rock (much easier than going up it).  As I hiked down, I marveled at the beautiful caves, the mysterious coffins and at this kind man who cheerfully donated a couple hours of his time to make sure I enjoyed both.  I paid more attention as I arrived back at the parking lot.  I noticed that the Coffin Caves sign, surrounded with bamboo scaffolding and kept company by a tiny cup and a paintbrush, was still a work in progress.  The bamboo triangle that pointed the way to the squat toilets that didn’t yet hold water was blank; no one had yet painted “toilet” on it.  I reflected back to the fact that no admission fee was charged to enter the caves.  I guess this is still an “up and coming” tourist attraction.  I’m grateful to have been able to visit it when I did.

the Coffin Cave sign under construction

I scarfed down my little picnic lunch I brought with me and motored on.  All along the road, I kept seeing signs for different hilltribe villages.  That could be quite interesting, I thought.  After passing through a drug checkpoint, I made a right turn and headed toward one such village.  Throughout North Thailand (and maybe the rest of it – I just haven’t been there to comment), there are drug checkpoints in the road, manned by Thai military personnel carrying machine guns.  It sounds scary, but they’ve always just waved the tourists through that I’ve seen.  The checkpoints are not mobile.  Their locations are even marked on the maps which makes me question the logic of them.  It seems that drug traffickers could just find alternate routes to avoid the checkpoints.  As I’m not a drug trafficker though, I just smiled, drove past and continued to enjoy my drive.

It was a slightly different situation when, only ten minutes later, I came to another checkpoint, this one not marked on my map.  This time, the armed men (Men is stretching it.  These boys appeared to be about twenty years old.) stopped me.  I donned my best sweet innocent tourist face (I was, afterall), smiled and said, “Sewatdee ka.  Sebaidee mai ka?” in my best Thai (“Hello. How are you?”)  The one with the gun smiled and returned my greeting.  The one without the gun remained serious.  At least I had favorably impressed the right one if you ask me.  “Where are you going?” the serious boy asked.  Still Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, “Just out for a drive.  I saw the sign for the hilltribe village and thought I’d take a look.”  Smile. Bat eyelashes.  

Serious Boy kept looking toward my backpack and that had me worried.  I didn’t have drugs or any sort of contraband but I had brought along $1300 in US cash.  A friend of mind had told me the night before that he didn’t know anyone who drove to Mae Hong Son without falling on their motorbike.  He stopped just shy of betting me that I wouldn’t break that statistic.  Although I figured I’d be fine, I brought the money along just in case I had a fall … and one serious enough to require a hospital visit.  I was concerned that if he searched my bag, he might find the money and take some portion of it as a bribe.  I hadn’t heard about that much in Thailand, but it happened in Bali with the police regularly so it didn’t seem out of the question.  Luckily, although his eyes passed over my pack several times, that was all and I was allowed to go on my way.  

monastery - monks living quarters

I made it to the hilltribe village, but, as seems to be the custom these days, no one was wearing any traditional clothing so they just looked like poor people living in bamboo houses on stilts.  They were friendly and waved as I drove by.  Not anxious to visit with Serious Boy again so soon, I continued on and came to another village.  Many of these houses were also on stilts. I’ve learned that this is typically a sign of a hilltribe, but I suppose anyone can put a house on stilts.  As I approached, I heard sharp loud sounds that conceivably could have been gunshots.  I didn’t see any people.  Surely no one was shooting at me, I thought and motored on, but a little slower.  I kept hearing the sounds, but saw no evidence of bullets flying anywhere near me.  Finally, I came upon a group of boys who were playing with a Thai version of firecrackers and laughed at my misperception.  

The village had lovely temple and monastery so I parked my bike and wandered over to some child monks hanging out on the steps.  I’m not sure if it was the sight of a foreigner or a woman or the combination that sent them running upstairs, but within minutes I was left alone, except for one of the temple boys who remained sitting on the steps studying me.  He smiled shyly as I took his picture and then ran upstairs with the other boys.  As I crossed back under the monastery (which was raised on concrete pillars), another firecracker exploded and I jumped.  Appparently, even the boy monks had been in on the firecracker mischief and had left some unexploded artillery behind in their haste to get away from me.  

religious artwork decorating the monastery interior

I was about to get on my bike and leave when a car pulled up with the head monk inside.  He waved to me and smiled.  That was all the invitation I needed.  I put my bike key away and headed over.  “Sewatdee ka.  Sebaidee mai ka?”  We exchanged greetings and he indicated that it was alright for me to go upstairs.  I removed my shoes (that’s the custom before entering a home or temple in Asia) and headed up. I looked around while I waited for him.  I hadn’t been in a monastery before.  This one seemed pretty modern although I had nothing with which to compare it. 

Shortly, the smiley monk came upstairs and invited me to sit with him.  I knew it was considered respectful in Thailand to keep your head lower than that of a monk’s, but I hadn’t spent any time around monks since my arrival in Thailand.  Accordingly, I was caught a little off guard when he indicated I should sit on the floor while he took a seat on some cushions one step above. I immediately began reviewing in my mind the other “monk rules” I had read so as to avoid giving offense to my happy host.  

I had read that women are not supposed to touch monks or even hand things or take things from them directly so I was surprised when the monk passed a cup of hot tea into my hands without setting it down first.  Maybe he’s a liberal monk, I thought.  I was out of my element here so I just followed his lead.  

He told me his name was Chun.  His English was only slightly better than my Thai, but we managed to communicate a little.  I told him that I was from the US and that I had arrived in his village on motorbike.  He told me that after a serious motorbike accident in Chiang Mai, he was afraid of motorbikes and only drove in cars.  He was concerned about my drive home on the winding roads so he presented me with a little red silk tassle that he said represented Buddha.  He strung it up for me on a piece of yarn, blessed it and indicated I should wear it around my neck “for safety and good luck from Buddha” on my way home.  

We quickly reached the limits of our foreign linguistic abilities so for five minutes or so, we just sat and smiled at each other and drank our tea.  I showed him the photos on my camera from the places I had been that day.  And then we sat in silence again. 

As a monk, I’m sure he’s much more comfortable with silence than I, a hyperactive Western woman.  So of course, after a bit I tried to fill the time with questions:  How many monks live here?   How old were you when you became a monk? What are your plans for the day?  Many of the answers were lost in translation.  What I understood him to say was that 23 monks lived there … but I only saw 5.  He said (or rather I understood) that he had been a monk for 23 years (this was a popular number) but he also told me that he became a monk when he was 18 and that now he was 33 so again maybe lost in translation.  “What are you doing for the rest of the day?” sent the poor monk to the back room where I heard him blow the dust off an English book.  He handed the book to me and I tried to find something close to what I was asking … or just something that we might talk about.  

The first phrase I saw was “Can you type fast and accurately?”  Hmmm… not really what I was going for.  I flipped through the book for a bit while the monk sat patiently waiting.  The book, written in the fifties, was clearly aimed at tourists, with the blatant exception of the question about typing.  Most of the conversations were about buying things and going on tours and arranging hotels.  I did find a short section discussing wats (temples) and monks that indicated that monks only eat two meals per day.  I pointed this out to the monk and asked him about it.  His short answer (yes) ended that conversation.  So he smiled some more.  And I smiled some more.  

Although I had failed to ascertain his plans for the day, I was sure that he had some and I didn’t want to keep him from them.  So I thanked him for the tea and his hospitality.  I asked him if I could photograph him with the young boy monks.  He either didn’t understand or didn’t want his photo taken because he indicated that I could photograph the boys but didn’t make a move to join them.  The boys clearly didn’t want their photos taken (just as well since I discovered I’d used all my battery in showing Chun my trip photos) so I told them all goodbye and hopped back on my motorbike.

free range Thai cattle enjoying the views

On my way back to the checkpoint, I came across a group of free range cattle (common in Thailand) two of which were laying in the road (also somewhat common).  It’s the little differences in life that I love about traveling!  Although Serious Boy was even more interested in my comings and goings this time, I made it through his checkpoint with no problems.  Later when I was looking at a map, I realized that if I had continued past the monk’s village, the road would have lead to the Burmese border.  Perhaps that’s why Serious Boy and his smilling, arms-toting croney were stationed there.  Interesting.

I made it safely past all the curves without falling and rolled into Pai just as a big rainstorm threatened to unleash itself on the tiny town.  I couldn’t resist stopping at the children’s fair that had just opened up.  A quick whirl on the ferris wheel and some fried fair food were a perfect ending to this interesting spontaneous day.  

the ferris wheel at the children's fair

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

The signs were all there that Pai was a place I would love. On the drive from Chiang Mai, the flat to rolling terrain I’d seen through much of Thailand thus far was replaced by winding, mountainous roads thickly lined with banana trees which are by far my favorite tree in Southeast Asia.  As we got closer and closer to Pai, the switch-backs become shorter and more frequent.  This stretch of road is reputed to be the curviest in all of Thailand. I’ve seen a statistic on a t-shirt here that there are 762 curves in the 125 km of road between Chiang Mai and Pai and having ridden it, I don’t doubt it. That’s basically a curve every 500 feet.  The bus driver was definitely in second gear for the vast majority of the trip.

tea for sale in Pai

In addition to the banana trees, many houses and roadside stands edged up to the road and tucked behind them were gorgeous green rice fields.  The best thing, however, was that people at the stands smiled and waved to us as we drove by!  I couldn’t wait to get on a motorbike and ride through the switchbacks, stopping at the stands to practice my new Thai with these friendly smiling people.  

The only regular size bus from Chiang Mai to Pai is unairconditioned and I’m told makes frequent stops turning the three hour trip into a seven hour one so I opted for the air conditioned mini-bus option which is basically a large passenger van.  I befriended the Thai couple, Lew and Che, sitting next to me who were going to Pai for a week long vacation.  

At a mid-way stop, three Israeli guys who were sitting behind us in the van assembled a hookah at a roadside table and began to smoke.  One of them, obviously sensitive to others’ perceptions, was quick to tell all the curious onlookers, “Not drugs.  Only tobacco.”  My friend Mordy from South Florida had been telling me before my departure about the delights of smoking a hookah.  He is planning on opening a hookah bar in either Mexico City or in Argentina and was anxious to share his passion for it with me.  I was disappointed that we were never able to coordinate a hookah trial in the busy days before I left Fort Lauderdale.  So when the Israeli guys invited me to join them, I didn’t hesitate for a second.  The tobacco comes in many flavors, most of them fruit.  Mordy had also told me that a chocolate flavor existed although he liked to mix flavors to create fruity or fruit and chocolate concoctions.  The hookah I tried was apple flavored.  I enjoyed it and the conversation with the Israelis. They were all engineering students about to begin their requisite six year military service in the Israeli army.  When I told them I was an artist, one of them wisely commented that doing what you love is a privilege.  I heartily agreed.

a typical boutique of items for sale in Pai

Pai is a small village of about 2,500 people that sits in a valley surrounded on three sides with mountains.  It’s located in northwest Thailand near the Myanmar border.  When our bus pulled into Pai at 5:30, the afternoon light was painting magic colors on the surrounding country landscape.  We rolled into town and I immediately felt at home. 

a Lisu hilltribe street vendor

Pai’s “downtown” consists of four main streets that form a square.  The resemblance to the town featured in the TV series Northern Exposure is uncanny.  In place of snow, food stalls, restaurants and vendors of hilltribe handicrafts line the streets and in lieu of a big moose wandering down Main Street, Pai’s thoroughfare is filled with friendly dogs who shake paws and lift well-practiced sad eyes to beg food from dining tourists.  These dogs are well groomed and well fed – clearly quite popular with the tourist crowd. I’ve been convinced by several to share my dinner and still can’t get over how gently they took the food from my hand, not snapping the way many dogs do. 

The energy on the streets reminds me of the shakedown before a Grateful Dead show … laid back, friendly, hippie’ish, artsy, funky.  Pai is the kind of place where restaurant and coffee shop owners instinctively know that couches and swings are more inviting and fun than regular chairs and incorporate them into their shops. Pai is known to be a center of liberalism, in great contrast to the otherwise fairly conservative Thai culture. I wouldn’t say that Pai feels very Thai.  It’s just a fabulously weird and magical little corner of the world that happens to be in Thailand. Getting into the funky Pai spirit, I wrote part of this entry from a beauty salon chair while two Thai women put hundreds of tiny braids in my hair.  

my new braids

There is great diversity among the people living and visiting in Pai.  It’s a place where you can see a local Muslim woman covered from head to toe except her eyes talking animatedly with dreadlocked tourist wearing a skimpy tank top and short shorts.  On my second day in town, I was introduced to a Catholic priest by his good friend, Lek, a self-proclaimed gay pagan witch who owns the Witching Well Coffee Shop, a gathering point in Pai. This morning while I ate my rice soup breakfast, I watched three monks on their daily pilgrimage collecting food from locals seeking to make merit.  There are the local Thais who work hard running their tourist-driven businesses, expats from around the world who’ve been permanently charmed by Pai’s magic and more Israelis vacationing here than I’ve ever met in my life.  I’ve been offered three potential homes in Jerusalem should I ever come visit.  It’s such a small and friendly town, I’m constantly waving at locals and tourists I’ve met as I wander around, giving me the feeling that I’ve lived here for years instead of only visiting for a couple weeks.

same bathroom from a different angle

my cool bathroom at Pai Chan Guesthouse

I’m staying in a little bungalow at the Pai Chan Guesthouse (www.paichan.com) which is located in the countryside overlooking rice fields just outside of town.  This guesthouse is spectacular.  Each “room” is a separate bungalow set in the midst of an amazingly landscaped mini-jungle.  I am greeted each morning by a fully loaded Japanese melon tree right outside my front door.  The entire guesthouse is fashionably designed, but my bathroom is one of my favorite features.  Those of you who saw my art gallery when I had it know that I love to design a funky bathroom (you can still see the photos at www.angledart.com) I’m sure that my current bathroom is going to offer inspiration to the next house I get my hands on.  The shower is open air with lovely blue tile floor and the rest of the room is covered with thatch roof.  The designers have used concrete creatively incorporating it into decoratively designed walls.   

Pai Chan has a gorgeous blue-tiled pool with open-air thatch hut buildings all around.  I’ve spent much of my time in Pai, lazing away in a poolside hammock that swings from one of the open sided thatch hut “buildings.”  Facing in one direction, I can observe the pool.  If I turn the other way, I have a lovely view of bright green rice fields which of course reminds me of Bali so it brings a smile.  Again, the designers have made creative use of concrete combining it and green grass to create beautiful and interesting designs on the guesthouse grounds.  For all this fabulousness, I’m paying a whopping 250 baht which is about $7 per night.  In low season, the price drops to $5.  

one of the cool concrete and grass designs at Pai Chan

The spirit in Pai encourages me to try new and different things; to broaden my horizons.  In an effort to stay fit on the road, I’ve started taking Muay Thai (Thai kick boxing) classes at the True Bee Gym (www.true-bee.com).  During the heaviest rains last month, the bridge that connected the gym to central Pai washed away so the first few days, the only way to the gym was to motorbike down a steep and  deeply gullied dirt path (reminiscent of my tour with Jong) and then to hike through a hilltribe village.  I can’t believe I found the place!  Since then, a new bamboo bridge has been built across the river so now I park my motorbike on one side of the bridge and hike across (constantly in awe of the Thais’ use of natural resources as building materials) then through some tall grassy fields to get to the gym. 

the new bamboo bridge leading to True-Bee Muay Thai gym

The gym is a small, open-air (isn’t everything in Southeast Asia?) boxing ring with a metal roof covering. There are 5 trainers and about 7-8 other students from all over the world; all guys except for one other girl, Yanna.  Yanna is beautiful, Swedish and much younger than I am.  She’s either incredibly shy or simply uninterested in my efforts to make friendly conversation.  She’s been training for eighteen months and I suspect is having a relationship with one of the trainers. I’ve heard that her parents own a Muay Thai gym in Krabi, a southern island in Thailand.  The trainers are all locals while the guy students are from Chile, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, France and Virginia.  Although a couple of them are just trying to stay in shape as I am, most of them have serious intentions of fighting professionally.  Most of the trainers have fought professionally including Mr. Bee who seems to be something of a celebrity.  Some of the students take great delight in teaching each other the choicest curse words in their various languages along with their English meanings.  If I ever wondered what went on in the boys’ locker room….  Sometimes they apologize to me later, saying “I forgot a lady was present.”  I’ve never known what to say to that statement so I just smile and nod.  It’s definitely sweat-and-spit kind of gym.    

The training is interesting.  We start our training by running 6-10 km.  So far, I’ve done this on my own due to miscommunications about where and when to meet for the group runs. When we arrive at the gym, we skip rope for about ten minutes (or in my case, as long as I can) and do various other warm-ups.  This is not the easy feat it used to be when I was ten years old.  As I finish, I have visions of Rocky slapping his rope on the ground after a particularly grueling, but successful workout.  Yeah, not quite there.  

Muay Thai (kickboxing) at True-Bee Gym

As the trainers tape up my hands and I don boxing gloves, my visions switch from Rocky to Million Dollar Baby.  Somehow when I signed up for this, I was picturing the kickboxing classes I used to take back at my American gym where a girl could still be a girl and get a good workout.  Decked out as I am here, surrounded by the smell of sweat and testosterone (yes, here I believe you can actually smell testosterone … or maybe I’m just confusing that with body odor), I’m feeling less feminine than I’m comfortable feeling.  But I believe a little discomfort is good for expanding boundries … and I only paid for a week of training.  I don’t really think I’ll grow hair on my chest before then, so what the heck?  I’m getting a great workout … and interesting language lessons!  

We don’t spar with each other during the lessons.  We actually review various offensive and defensive techniques and then put them to the test against a trainer who’s wearing pads and calls out the kicks or punches we should use.  Between each session, another trainer poors water in our mouths (our hands are still in the boxing gloves) and then gives us a mini-muscle massage.  

Besides being bathed in sweat at the end of the session, the other gym highlights for me are the four-week old puppies who live on sight and the fabulous array of Thai food brought in from the market that we share family style after the workout.   

enjoying campucha with Daniela

Another new experience for me in Pai is campucha, a tea made from mushrooms that tastes like apple cider with a kick.  The owner of The Good Life, where my friends and I enjoy campucha, swears there’s no alcohol in it, but we know we get a buzz after drinking only a little.  Must be the mushrooms.  My daily routine in Pai has evolved into a morning Muay Thai workout, snoozing or emailing from the poolside hammock at the guesthouse or taking my motorbike out into the Pai countryside. Most evenings, you’ll find me, my German friend Daniela and a few other assorted travelers hanging out at The Good Life sharing campucha and discussing the philosophy of life.  We’ve concluded it’s good (life … but campucha too).

The night I arrived in Pai, after settling into my guesthouse, I drove my motorbike toward town.  As I got closer, I saw some beautiful and mysterious glowing orange lanterns floating about thirty feet off the ground and rising into the air.  Mesmerized, I stopped to watch for a moment. In a few minutes, I came to the bridge to town where people were lighting the lanterns and releasing them.  The hot air from the mini fires created the warm glow and also carried the lanterns up into the air.  I’ve since learned that these Chinese lanterns are used only in the northern part of Thailand.  People use them to deliver their wishes and prayers to the skies or alternatively to carry their bad luck far away.  Either way, it was a lovely and magical welcome to this unusual little crossroads in the world.

Would YOU settle for just a slice of this Pai?

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

Before I get into this entry, I want to acknowledge the economic crisis that’s affecting so many people in the US and around the world. I must admit that I feel a bit whiny talking about how I’m not connecting to Thailand when so many people have lost so much in the recent stock market crashes and bank failures. It certainly puts all of this in perspective for me. My sincere sympathies to each of you who have been affected. In particular, my thoughts and well wishes go to my many artist friends in the midst of the fall art show circuit. Best of luck to you guys. I hope that some people are still able to open their wallets and give homes to your amazing art work.

———————-

Maybe I’ve given a mis-impression of Thailand. It’s not that the people here are mean or ugly; not at all (except for that knife-vending woman who WAS rather abrupt.) I just haven’t experienced that “Welcome to Thailand! We’re so glad you’re here!” kind of magic that I did when I was in Bali … or Mexico, Brazil, Morocco or many other places I’ve traveled to. But I notice that one common denominator among all of those countries is that I at least spoke a little of the local language and people really seemed to appreciate me making the effort. Perhaps it’s just trying that opens doors in these countries. Think of all the times Americans get upset when people come to our country and never attempt to learn English. I figure it’s the same thing so hopefully by learning some Thai, I’ll open some doors here in Thailand.

from Chiang Rai to Chiang Mai and on to Pai (there are no direct buses from Chiang Rai to Pai)

I’m currently on a bus on my way to Pai, a small village in Northwest Thailand that has a reputation for being funky, artsy with a sorty of hippie subculture. Should be interesting!

I finished my final Thai language lesson last night – eight hours of lessons in a 36 hour period. My teacher told me that normally she would stretch this course out over 6 – 8 days, longer if the student had the time, but I was in a hurry so we crammed it into two. Crammed is exactly what it felt like too.  If Thai language and lessons were tangible objects, you’d see them oozing out of my ears and nose right now, I’m sure!  I definitely didn’t come close to retaining it all … or even 50%.  But on my way back to my hotel last night, I passed through the night bazaar and sought out a one-of-a-kind hand-embroidered skirt that I’d had my eye on for the past three days. I was proud and excited that I managed to negotiate for and buy the skirt … entirely in Thai!  (My end of the conversation was basically:  ”Hi. How are you? Can I try this on? How much is it? Can you give me a discount? [note that bargaining is standard practice throughout Southeast Asia. I would never ask an artist for a discount back home!] Can you give me a bigger discount?  How about 300 baht? No? OK, 500 baht (about $15) is fine. Thank you. Goodnight.”)  Not bad for two days of Thai lessons.  

All my commentary about not yet finding a real connection to Thailand doesn’t mean that I haven’t been out adventuring and filling my time trying to find one, although it was a bit slow getting things going in Chiang Rai. On the bus trip up here, my friend Steve (from the cooking class) came down with a fever, body aches and general flu-like symptoms. My Canadian friend Lindsay who I met in Bali and have hung out with a bit in Thailand too recently contracted dengue fever, a mosquito-borne illness also known as “breakbone illness” because of the severe muscle and bone aches suffered by the victim. Other than that, the symptoms for dengue (and malaria) are very similar to the flu although the outcome is much more serious (malaria can be deadly within a 48 hour period if untreated).

Wat Rong Kuhn - the White Temple

I just spent several days of the past week with Lindsay at the hospital in Chiang Mai getting her diagnosis, shopping for movies to keep her occupied and checking up on her after she was admitted to the hospital. It’s currently the tail end of rainy season here in Thailand … prime mosquito conditions; a fact I hadn’t even considered in scheduling my visit during this time. Needless to say, after Lindsay’s bad experience (she had a fever of 105 which didn’t break for days, couldn’t eat, began fainting and was suffering severe muscle aches), I immediately started taking my malaria pills and coating myself with 50% DEET mosquito repellant (the strongest I could find here).

So when Steve began complaining of headaches, fever and general flu-like symptoms on the bus on the way up to Chiang Rai, I was fearful that he might have dengue as well (which lasts for about three weeks and, other than taking medicine to keep the fever down, there’s not much you can do for it but suffer through it). Luckily, it turns out it was only a 24 hour virus, but that pretty much kept us close to the hotel for a couple days while he recovered. I, of course, used the time to catch up on journaling and emails.

Two days after we arrived, though, we were ready to get out and start adventuring so we hired a local guide, Jong, who works out of the hotel at which we were staying. A random, comical and interesting day ensued.

Buddha floating on a lotus blossum at the White Temple

 

In negotiating our tour, Jong explained that part of the deal was that we had to take him on our motorbike to get his motorbike and then we would follow him to the various places on our tour for the rest of the day. To do this, Jong told us, we would need to ride with three people on the motorbike until we got his bike. We assumed (and we all know NEVER to assume!) that his bike was about 5 to 10 minutes away. No problem, we thought. We’d driven with three people on the bike a few times around Chiang Mai … and I’d seen the Thai and Balinese load up to five people on a bike. Sure, let’s do it!

We piled on the bike – Jong driving, me in the middle (because Steve didn’t want to put his hands around Jong’s waist – silly macho boys!) and Steve in the back. Jong drove us through town … to the outskirts of town … and right out of town. “We have to go to my village to get my bike,” Jong said. Still not learning our lesson about assuming, we assumed (again incorrectly) that his village must be the next one over. We drove another 20 minutes … still no village. “We’ll stop to see the White Temple first because it’s on the way to my village.” Jong told us. Ok, no problem. Mai pen rai (a catch-all Thai phrase which can mean whatever, it’s all good, no problem, it doesn’t matter and even you’re welcome).

We stopped at the White Temple. Rather than telling us about the temple, Jong excused himself to go visit with a friend. Excellent tour guide, we thought. Mai pen rai. The first thing we noticed on our approach was the “moat monster” … some kind of scary stone creature emerging from the moat surrounding the temple, presumably there to scare away any evil spirits. Even under construction and surrounded by scaffolding, the moat monster was doing his duty, bearing his teeth and claws even while about to eat a fish that was almost as scary looking as the moat monster himself. 

the "moat monster" guarding the temple

The White Temple was a beautifully constructed wat that was entirely white in color and adorned with thousands of little silver mirrors in contrast to the standard gold temples that might also have smatterings of red trim. It was pretty to look out, but the white colors and silver mirrors reminded me of ice. I got chilly just looking at it. I was immediately a big fan though of the

Sans guide, Steve and I roamed around the grounds and finally inside the temple itself where we came across a very surreal Dali-esque sci-fi type mural on the back wall. One portion of the mural featured the infamous second plane about to strike the Twin Towers on 9/11. A giant, hellish looking two-headed snake emerged from the fires of the already burning first tower. Keanu Reeves in his black Matrix coat made an appearance in another section of the mural. There was no literature to explain the mural and we couldn’t find any sort of temple guide to tell us about it. So we left and met Jong outside. When we asked about the mural, he had no idea what we were talking about.

The three of us piled back on the motorbike still headed for Jong’s village. Slow learners, Steve and I decided that Jong must live just around the corner.

the White Temple's sci-fi mural of hell features the Twin Towers on 9.11

even Keanu Reeves makes an appearance in the White Temple's fascinating sci-fi mural

We raised our eyebrows at each other twenty minutes later when we turned off the small country road and onto a gravel road. Our mouths dropped when, after another twenty minutes, we exchanged the gravel road for a dirt road. “Jong, how much farther to your village?” we asked, with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. This was insane!

“Five kilometers up the mountain. In one kilometer you’ll see views from the mountain. And I live in a Karen village so you’ll get to see that too,” he answered excitedly, oblivious to our amazement at the ridiculousness of the situation.

Jong can’t measure. His five kilometers was actually about twenty-five. Luckily, Steve and I are both fans of random experiences … and this was climbing the charts of random … so we both laughed when Jong finally pulled the bike over at a tiny crossroads and announced that this was his home. Only 1.5 hours from our hotel. Oh well, we chuckled. At least we’d seen some interesting Thai countryside. I was amazed at the density and the height of the lush green-ness that surrounded us on these tiny roads. Some of the thick grasses soared fifteen feet in the air. I would intimidated on a large scale if I had to clear any sort of path through this jungle of growth.

Karen house in Jong's neighborhood

Jong asked us to wait by the motorbike and a few minutes later came back with his own. “I need you to give me 200 baht and wait here for twenty minutes. My bike needs some repairs,” he announced. His front tire was completely flat. Steve and I started laughing out loud as the situation grew more and more absurd. Of course Jong had not only known how far his bike was from the hotel, but also knew that it would need work when we finally got to it. These kinds of things are why he’s still in “tour guide school,” Steve and I laughed with each other. Enjoying the pure comedy of the situation (what else could we do) we paid Jong for the whole day so he didn’t need to ask for any more money and we wandered around his “neighborhood” while we waited for him to come back.

As Jong drove away on his flat tire, I not only wondered about whether he was ruining his rim but whether we were naive to pay him all we owed him stranded out in the middle of God knows where. But we were camped out in front of his house. He had to come home at some point. So, mai pen rai. Let’s just see what’s around the corner.

We wandered for twenty minutes through the Karen village (Karen are another hilltribe) that was his neighborhood. We came to what was clearly a dead-end: the concrete road ended and turned into a muddy slippery steep hill that didn’t look very inviting. We turned around, walked back to Jong’s house and then waited by the bike for another fifteen minutes. Although I was enjoying watching the pigs, chickens and dogs that were all around us, I was beginning to rethink my earlier conclusion. Just then, Jong motored up. “Let’s go get some lunch!” he said excitedly. The first good idea he’d had all day.

dog napping in a Karen house across the street from Jong's house

We were glad to have a little more “bum room” on our bike as we followed Jong … right to that muddy slippery steep uninviting hill that we had earlier concluded was a dead end. Given the day’s previous absurdities, I knew immediately that Jong was not joking with us. We were going off-road into serious motor-cross country. Never mind that our motorbike was just a little automatic 125 cc scooter and not a real off-road bike. Never mind that Jong had neglected to ask us if we were experienced drivers … or nervy ones. Never mind … well anything. Steve and I looked at each other and shrugged. Mai pen rai. We had wanted an interesting adventure. Here it was. Let’s go for it.

Turns out, Steve’s a good off-road driver. I’ve learned how to drive double on a motorbike, but he’s much better than I am so I let him do the honors. Boys will always be boys … he was delighted to take the wheel and get dirty.

I was starting to feel comfortable with our muddy off-road adventure when we rounded a corner to find Jong stopped at the bottom of the steepest, muddiest hill we’d faced. Small rivers of water from the recent rainy season (we’re still in the end of it) had carved many large gullies in the “road.” “Can you walk?” Jong asked. I’m so thrilled that I actually got this exchange on video! “Walk?” I asked, incredulous. “It’s too heavy for two of you to go up this hill. You need to get off,” Jong explained. Oh, NOW he’s concerned about safety!

“Where are we going and do we have much farther to get there?” I was re-evaluating the situation, ready to turn back at this point. “We’re going to a Lahu village for lunch,” Jong said matter-of-factly. The Lahu are one of the Thai hill tribes. “Yes, it’s still far.” He clearly saw nothing abnormal about the situation.

I wanted to meet the Lahu, but was beginning to doubt we’d get there in one piece. I had lost all confidence in Jong as a guide and wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if he asked us next to cross a deep canyon that had as its only “bridge” a single rope that we should dangle from by our hands, Indiana Jones style. Steve was determined, however. We’d already come this far. He was not about to turn back without “defeating” this road. So I got off the bike and video’d both guys heading up this tricky stretch. Jong slipped a few times but made it. Steve wasn’t so lucky. I stopped my video short to hurry up the hill and assist him pulling the bike out of one of the large gullies. We pushed the bike up the hill together to comparatively safer ground and both hopped back on.

Lahu village

We fell over on our motorbike a few more times on our way to the Lahu village. Jong crashed a couple times more than we did. Steve burned his foot really badly on the exhaust during one of our spills and immediately got an ugly blister that plagued him for our remaining time in Chiang Rai. I nicked the exhaust once, but apparently reacted quickly enough that it didn’t really burn my leg too badly. Cowardly cross-roader that I am, I learned how to launch myself off the back of the bike quickly so that I could easily bail in the face of danger. So much for solidarity.

We faced several more hills that I had to climb on foot. A couple times I rode small stretches on the back of Jong’s bike … who crashed with me too. Amazingly, only Jong got really hurt that day. He fell hard against a tree trunk during one of his crashes and really banged his neck, aggravating a previous injury.

Relieved doesn’t begin to describe how I felt when we finally reached the Lahu village. I was awed by the views, and by the small size of the village (probably no more than 100 people lived there) although not so much by the people. We sat in the open air “living room” of what we learned was the village chief’s hut and tried to engage with the villagers gathered there. Other than trying to sell us their wares (hand embroidered bags and water bottle holders), the Lahus pretty much ignored us. One even declined Jong’s request to guide us on foot for pay to a nearby waterfall. Very disappointing.

the chief's "clothesline"

Many of the hilltribes dress in modern clothes these days. We were told at the Hilltribe Museum in Chiang Rai that many of their traditional costumes, which can take up to a year to make, have been bought by visiting tourists as souvenirs. Rather than replace them, the hill tribe people just buy modern ready-made clothes. This was true of this particular village whose members were decked out in stained t-shirts and sweat pants. The chief’s wife was dressed up more than most though. She wandered around in a lace bra, an item that I’m sure was considered by all the villagers to be a rare and coveted commodity. 

There wasn’t a restaurant in the Lahu village. Jong just went to the village shop and bought some packaged ramen noodles and eggs and cooked them for us. Inside the chief’s two-room bamboo house, a small area in the floor about 3 feet square had been segregated as the kitchen. On the little spot in the floor, there was a fire burning where Jong boiled water to cook our noodles. Our eggs were “cooked” in our soup.

Steve enjoying a warm beer

Drink choices were warm beer or Coke. After the nerve-frying drive up, we both went for the warm beer option. We paid twice as much for our warm-beer-and-packaged-ramen-noodle lunch as we would have back in town, but weren’t bothered as we figured we had probably just fed the entire village with our $5.  We would have felt even better if they’d had more to do with us.

We enjoyed playing with a tiny cat and her kitten – the only village members who would engage with us – as we kicked back and took in the views. I was astounded to see the “grocery man” arrive on a motorbike delivering the weekly food supplies to the villagers. He had a large styrofoam cooler strapped to the back of his motorbike and two beyond-bulging bags of produce on either side of his bike. Despite the incredible cargo, his bike wasn’t covered in mud as ours and Jong’s were from the many slips and spills. Had he really made it all the way to the top of this mountain over those tricky, muddy, wet slippery roads without falling once? Incredible! 

 Too soon, Jong announced it was time to go if we wanted to see a waterfall and hot springs on the way home. I was really hoping that there was a paved road lurking on the other side of the village and that our motorcross ride up was just a cruel joke, but I knew better. Down the mountain on muddy slippery slopes scared me more than up. Had these villagers been more friendly, I might have been tempted to trade the chief’s wife a bra to let me stay until rainy season ended completely and the “roads” dried up. Nothing doing.

The "grocery guy" beat us down the mountain so I had a chance to photograph him loading up again.

I’ve read that one definition of adventure is an experience gone terribly awry that you manage to survive to tell about afterwards. This was that kind of adventure. I gritted my teeth, hopped on the back of our bike, said another of many prayers offered during the day and renewed my “propel off quickly” position. I was pleasantly surprised to find that going down the mountain was actually much easier than going up. Both bikes were accident free all the way.

view of a tea plantation

On the way to the waterfall, we drove up mountain passes so steep that, even though they were paved, several times I had to get off the bike and walk up … it just couldn’t carry two of us. We also drove through some lovely tea plantations. Just before we arrived at the waterfall, Jong stopped us on a dirt road and excused himself to go visit another friend for five minutes. Steve and I are obviously laid back tourists. Mai pen rai. Jong’s random moment gave me the opportunity to photograph some of the gorgeous hillside tea plantations and to observe and video some local boys practicing their kickboxing and other martial arts on each other. 

When he returned, Jong guided us to the base of the forest trail up to the waterfall, but for some reason didn’t go any farther. We’d become accustomed to guiding ourselves through the day so we trekked on up alone. We laughed to ourselves as we passed a park employee sweeping the leaves off of the dirt path in the middle of the jungle forest leading to the waterfall. Only in Thailand.  

Jong struck gold with the waterfalls which were stunning

The falls were gorgeous and well worth the climb. Jong had told us we could swim at the waterfall but to be careful because the rocks were very slippery. He didn’t say anything about the ladder. Steve was halfway down the bamboo ladder leading to the pool of the falls when it broke and he was dumped unceremoniously at the bottom. Bummer. It was at least a fifteen foot climb back up with no obvious toe holds. We both figured he might as well as least enjoy the water while he was down there.

The pool was small and there didn’t appear to be anything that would keep him from getting washed down the mountain at the pool’s edge so he wisely decided to forego a swim and just rinse the mud off his feet from the earlier motor-cross adventure. I don’t think he could have gotten back up on his own. I grabbed onto a tree to keep from falling and pulled him up with my free hand.

We were surprised to run into two other people coming down the mountain. They told us there were two more falls above and advised us that the trail to the top one was “dodgy” and hadn’t been climbed in a while. We continued our climb up to the second falls. Also very pretty. We carefully crossed the somewhat rickety bamboo bridge, remembering the broken ladder, ready to head up to the third falls. The bridge ended at a sheer cliff wall. Without rock climbing gear, we couldn’t imagine how anyone could climb it. Dodgy? It seemed to us to be completely impassable. We decided to quit while we were ahead in the day’s adventures.

personal hotsprings tub

We met up with Jong again and motored on. It was kind of a shock when we pulled back onto real paved roads. It felt like we were driving on velvet compared to the bumpy treacherous muddy paths we’d spent most of the day on. We arrived at the hot springs five minutes before they closed. Apparently the rule was that as long as you were there by 5:00 closing time, you could stay until 6:00. My body was bruised (not as bad as the guys’) and my nerves a bit frazzled so I was really looking forward to a hot soak. This being Jong’s tour, however, it was probably destiny that the large public pool was being drained for cleaning. Luckily, they had some private rooms that basically had personal hot tubs with water from the hot springs. It wasn’t exactly the same as swimming around, but I really appreciated the nice, hot relaxing soak. 

Before we left the hot springs grounds, Jong began lobbying to take us on a different tour the next day. We just laughed and smiled. “I think we’ll do our own thing tomorrow, Jong” we told him, not remotely interested in another one of his misadventures. One day of “random” was enough.

To see a video of our off-road adventures and other aspects of our crazy day, click here.

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

Fourteen days into my alotted six weeks in Thailand and it has yet to become the “Land of Smiles” for me.  I feel I need to take some responsibility for this, however, so I have decided to do two things:  cease the constant comparisons to Bali and learn to speak some Thai.  This morning, rather than leaving Chiang Rai for Pai as I had planned, I did a complete about-face and enrolled in an intensive two-day/ eight hour Thai language course.  I’m studying with a woman named Wanlapa who promises I can speak Thai after 6 hours of lessons.  Of course we both know that I won’t be speaking fluently … that’s what the extra two hours are for.  Kidding.

I realize that I can’t make Thailand into Bali … nor should I try.  Thailand has its own charms and unique personality that I look forward to knowing.  But I think a big part of the reason Bali opened up to me and showed me her magic is that I took the time to learn some Indonesian before I arrived and made the effort to use it once I was there.  I’m hoping that Thailand is the same and that being able to say sewatdee ka (hello) with all the right tones will be the equivalent of saying “open sesame.” 

The Thai language has 44 consonents and fifteen vowels that can be combined in 32 different ways.  Additionally, one can say the same word with five different tones and have five different meanings.  For example, “mai” can mean “no,” “mile,” “new,” “silk,” or “correct?” depending on whether your tone is rising, falling, flat or a combination of rising/falling (marked with ˆ) or falling/rising (marked with ˇ).  If you’re not careful with your tones, while attempting to tell someone “come here,” you can instead call them a horse or a dog.  I couldn’t imagine how Wanlapa could have me speaking this incredibly complex language in six hours, yet after two, I can say, “Hello, my name is Beverly.  I am American. How are you? I am fine. Nice to meet you. This is a book. Is that a pen?  Excuse me.  Thank you.  You’re welcome.”  I also learned to count to one hundred.  Granted, I can’t do the majority of this without a lot of pauses and thinking at this point. However, I’m optimistic … and determined. Open sesame, Thailand.  

map of Thailand

(written September 30) I’ve been in Thailand for one week now.  I still have a hole in my heart for Bali and am not finding much to fill it thus far in “the Land of Smiles.”  I appreciated the irony of the grimacing, unsmiling immigration officials sitting immediately underneath the sign, “Welcome to the Land of Smiles” when I landed in Bangkok, hoping that wasn’t indicative of the types of smiles for which the land was famous. 

To date, I’ve spent all my time in Chiang Mai, aka “the Rose of the North,” the city I had anticipated would be my “Thai home base.”  Travel is about learning and one thing I learned about myself from my time in Bali is that I prefer spending most of my travel time in smaller locales that are off the beaten path.  The fewer tourists that make their way there, the better as far as I’m concerned. The locals in such places are more open to a genuine interaction which I find pleasing.  I also like watching the chickens, pigs and other animals that are more prevalent in rural areas.

The litmus test I’ve found myself using recently is my hometown of Paducah, Kentucky.  If it’s larger than “little ol’ Paducah,” then it’s too big.  So Chiang Mai, with its international airport and 15 story buildings, clearly didn’t fit the bill. As I write, I’m on a (very bouncy) bus on my way to Chiang Rai, the center of the Golden Triangle border region of Thailand, Laos and Myanmar (Burma).  Chiang Rai, populaton 62,000, may also be bigger than what I’m looking for.  It does have an airport afterall.  But then again, so does Paducah. I hear that the motorbiking around Chiang Rai is fabulous so for that reason alone I’m willing to give it a shot.

food market in Chiang Mai

Despite Chiang Mai not being the perfect fit I had anticipated, I still found touches of the interesting there. Two nights in a row, on my motorbike drive to my hotel at 1:00 am, I saw a man walking his elephant home … right down the main street in downtown Chiang Mai!  I’ve enjoyed the different sights of tuk-tuks (three-wheeled motorized taxis) and songthaew (modified pick up trucks with two benches in the back which are less expensive than taxis but aren’t quite public buses).  

tuk tuk

The occasional loudspeaker-equipped pickup truck drives through the city center blaring what I assume is an advert for either a political candidate or a business.  This morning I saw a similarly equipped pickup truck loaded up in back with a few monks and a shrine. People were approaching the back of the truck in droves receiving blessings from the monks who seemed to be reciting prayers over the loudspeaker.  Who knew that the Buddhists were into evangelization?

Shopping in Chiang Mai beats that in Bali hands down. The Night Bazaar, which is open until about midnight each night, has all kinds of fantastic wares that make me want to buy a house just so I can decorate it with these beautiful silks, woodenwares and interesting lights.  Unfortunately, I don’t have a house at the moment and my backpack is already bulging at the seems.  I had a blast though grazing through the “food court” portion of the Sunday Market, marveling at all the interesting new sights and smells. Although I didn’t mind passing on the fried crickets and paper thin fried squid-on-a-stick, I regretted that I didn’t have more room in my tummy for many other things.  

fried crickets and shrimp

I’ve had some interesting experiences in and around Chiang Mai.  I took a cooking class at the famous Chiang Mai Thai Cookery School one day.  The next day, I went with a British friend I met in the cooking class up to Wat Doi Suthep, the most important temple in Chiang Mai that sits at the top of a large hill.  I felt like we were playing Laurel and Hardy’s “Who’s on First” in planning the trip.  I would say something about the wat and Steve would say “What?” “The Wat.” I answered. “What?” he said in all seriousness, not realizing that the Thai word for temple is wat. 

On another day, I spent an hour playing with tigers.  A very new and touristy operation called Tiger Kingdom has set up shop about 15 km north of Chiang Mai. They have three groups of tigers, 2 months, 5 months and 11 months, that customers can get in a cage and play with for 20 minutes each at the amazingly low cost of 500 Baht per age group.  One can play with all three age groups for 1,000 Baht which is about $30.  A few months ago, I went swimming with dolphins and sea lions in Islamorada, Florida for 30 minutes and paid $250!

me with an 11 month old tiger

Pushing my monkey bite experience to the back of my mind, I hurried up to Tiger Kingdom to add “roughousing with tigers” to my list of Southeast Asian experiences.  First I played with the 5 month old “babies” … or attempted to.  There were four of them in the cage. One greeted me exuberantly when I entered, bounding up to me and smacking me playfully on the ankle with his softball-sized paw before running off to jump in the concrete pond (a real concrete pond; not the kind that Ellie and Jethro had).  A five month old tiger is about the size of a medium dog.  I would guess they weighed about 50-60 pounds.  Luckily, he kept his claws retracted while extending the invitation to play. Other than occasionally playing tug of war with a palm branch though, that was the extent of my actual play with this age group.  The four tigers cubs were so engrossed in playing with each other that I was content to just stand nearby and watch.  

me with a 2 month old tiger

Next, I played with the two month old cubs which TIger Kingdom called “newborns.”  They were the size of small dogs, maybe weighing about 30 pounds.  I had obviously caught them at naptime as four of the five of them just snoozed in the corner of the room.  I enticed the fifth one to play though with the cardboard core from a roll of toilet paper.  God, I love an easy tiger.

It was inevitable, of course, that I would be bitten.  Tigers bite when playing just like domesticated cats and dogs do.  Thankfully, the bites came from the little guys and, like playful dogs and cats, they weren’t going for blood; just a playful nip.  I have to admit though that “playful nip” wasn’t what came to mind when it happened though.  “Ouch that hurt!” was what I said … amazing how knowing you’re on video can temper what you really want to say.  They didn’t break the skin, but I did end up with bruises the next day … bruises I loved to show off.  Afterall, how often can you answer “tiger bite” when someone asks you how you picked up a bruise?  The baby play bites also gave me perspective on what a big tiger “play” bite would be feel like and even more insight into what a big tiger “I’m going to eat you” bite would feel like.  Some experiences I’m content to imagine.

me with a 5 month old tiger

After my time was up with the babies, I moved on to the big boys.  They were … well … tiger size.  Remembering how strong the 5 month old paw swat and the 2 month old play bites were, I was not disappointed in the least to find the big beasts snoozing and almost completely oblivious to my petting.  I rubbed big tiger backs and tummies and even used them as pillows (at the encouragement of the tiger’s supervisor) and, for the most part, drew no more interest than a stretch and a yawn.  The big guys were actually pretty boring … but I didn’t mind it that way.  The biggest one, Gil, sat up long enough to give me a good photo of his super large head in the foreground and little me hanging out by his rump.  

From my visit with the tigers, I had another discovery … I’m allergic to tigers. I didn’t think about it ahead of time, but it didn’t surprise me because I’m allergic to domestic house cats too … but that doesn’t stop me from playing mama to 3 and loving on all the others I can.  I sneezed most of the way home on my motorbike (tough to drive a bike when you’re sneezing!) and struggled every bit of the way not to rub my itching eyes as I knew they would puff up and turn bright red.  Hooray for antihisitimine!

During a little break from my allergy fits, I pulled over to the side of the road to admire an impressive array of unusually shaped knives that a woman was selling.  “Can I take a photo?” I asked her.  “Why do you want a picture?” she retorted. (Oh how I miss the Balinese how would often ASK me to take their pictures and thank me for doing so!)  “Because we don’t have knives like this in my country so it’s interesting to me,” I told her sincerely.  She shocked me with her reply: “Your country is stupid!”

an interesting array of knives

Having endured countless negative comments during this trip about my country and my countrymen, her words stung … until I realized that she had absolutely no idea where I was from.  She must have realized this at the same time because she asked, “Where are you from?” “Switzerland,” I answered without missing a beat.  They’re overdue for some bashing. 

To see a video of the Thai food stalls, click here.

I’m currently working on a video of me with the tigers but have run into a software issue with my laptop. Stay tuned…

Banjar is a small laid back village whose primary attraction is a hotsprings that was discovered and developed by the Japanese occupying force stationed there during World War II.  Juha and I enjoyed the hotsprings in the morning where we had a great time getting in water fights with the local kids.  We were losing badly, but we attributed that to being outnumbered about 10 to 2.  Juha recruited a few of the locals to our side, an impressive act of diplomacy, but we lost nonetheless.  

The hotsprings were relaxing and fun, but the highlight of Banjar for me was actually stumbling upon a traveling fair that had come to town. My brother John had a bad experience with a fair that came to our hometown when we were kids.  They basically sucked away all his money in about 20 minutes … as do fairs in most places.  I was convinced, however, that this fair would have been great therapy for him.  It only cost $0.50 to get in (I’m sure the locals got an even better price) and even after eating, drinking and playing our way through the fair, we still hadn’t spent $5.

fair food

Most of the games and rides are the same kind of thing that I’ve seen at fairs at home:  the ring toss game, the ferris wheel, little train that circles the grounds.  There were of course some decided differences as well – particularly in the food department.  While Juha played it safe, I went out on a limb with an avocado shake (yummy) and a grape jelly drink … that actually had the consistency of jelly mixed with liquid.  Weird.  Another difference I noticed was the distinct absence of stuffed animals as game prizes.  Instead, the prizes were practical items.  In one ring toss game that Juha won, the prizes seemed to be limited to soap and cigarettes.  We must not have understood the rules, however, because he was awarded no prize at all.  Bummer.  We were almost out of soap.  In a game that I won, I was awarded a small package of laundry detergent.  I had just had all my laundry cleaned so I gifted it to one of the kids standing nearby … which I regretted the next day when Juha wore his new favorite shirt for the 4th day in a row (and day 3 consisted of a hot sweaty hike).  Big prizes were oscillating fans and motorbike helmets.  

jelly drink from the fair

 As Juha and I wandered around the fair, we were again like Disney characters at Disney World.  Everyone spoke to us, shook our hand, photographed us.  One little girl surprised me when she took my hand, I thought to shake it.  Instead, she kissed my hand and said “I love you.”  Talk about feeling welcome!

To see video of the fair, click here.

Since I’m obviously still quite behind in my writing, I’ll just give you the highlights of the the next few days.  From Banjar, we drove a short distance to Lovina where we took a pre-dawn ride out into the ocean in canoe size boats with spider legs to try to see some dolphin pods.  We were rewarded after 3 hours of boating, but most of the rest of the time was just a bumpy, cold, wet ride.

In an oddly surreal moment, we stopped at the side of the road for a soda and snack to take a break from the ride. After serving us, the woman who owned the shop and her five kids came to the front of the shop and sat on a step right by our table and literally just stared at us while we ate and drank.  It was such a comical scene, I had to make a video of it (of course!).  Click here  to share our surreal experience. 

Tianyar "cremation" ceremony

On our way to Amed, we passed through Tianyar, another small village, where some kind of ceremony was going on.  About 20 villagers were holding sticks that had white t-shirts and stuffed white sheets that resembled heads.  I’d never seen or read about anything like this so of course we doubled back around to observe.  I got out both of my cameras and starting videoing/shooting away.  “You’re photographing all this but do you know what it means?” someone laughingly asked me.  A young handsome Balinese man named Kadek introduced himself.  He explained that this was a cremation ceremony.  I’ve come to realize in my time on Bali that there are a multitude of aspects and phases of cremation and, although I’m certain they each have distinctive names in Balinese, all of them are described to us tourists as “a cremation ceremony.”  I watched and listened, fascinated.  When the villagers stood up and started their procession through the streets, I was ready to pick up and follow.  Sensible Juha, however, pointed out that we still had a drive ahead of us in order to get to Amed before dark so I reluctantly left the ceremony and we continued on our journey, but not before accepting Kadek’s invitation to return the next day to see the continuation of the ceremony.  To see a video of this interesting ceremony (there is no cremation), click here.

Juha and I motored on to Amed where my favorite group of Balinese guys welcomed us warmly. We enjoyed dinner, drinks and music with them and then went out to a local club to hear some live music. It felt great to be back in Amed!

Tianyar "cremation" ceremony

The next morning, Juha headed back to Denpasar to return his back and head back to Finland while I stayed on (and on and on) in Amed.  I did take a few little roadtrips.  I went back to Tianyar to see the rest of the ceremony from the day before.  It turns out, it was a conglomeration of ceremonies.  They had actually had a cremation that morning (and I missed it! Drat!), but while they had the priest in town, they also had 2 other ceremonies that are rites of passage for the Balinese:  tooth filing ceremonies and 3 month ground-touching ceremonies. 

tooth filing ceremony

The Balinese believe that when babies are born, they are like Gods.  As the ground is a dirty place, babies are not permitted to touch the ground for the first 3 months of their lives.  As they get older, they are less and less God-like so at 3 months old, the Balinese hold a ceremony called penyambutan where the baby’s feet touch the ground for the first time.  Kadek told me that his village couldn’t afford a priest for a long time so the villagers were economizing and having a mass ceremony as is becoming the more common custom these days.  Although the ceremony had also apparently taken place that morning before my arrival (double drat!) I noticed that many of the children dressed in yellow and white for the ceremony were 1 year and 2 years old … well beyond 3 months.  Kadek told me they were permitted to touch the ground after 3 months old (I couldn’t imagine carrying a child for 2 years!), but that they just hadn’t had an actual ceremony.  This still seems a bit unusual to me so perhaps something got lost in translation.

I did, however, get to observe tooth-filing ceremonies that were also being performed en masse to save money.  The tooth filing ceremony is a rite of passage for an adolescent Balinese into adulthood.  During the ceremony, the young Balinese bites onto a piece of sugar cane while a priest uses a small hammer and a file to file a bit of the person’s teeth.  The Balinese believe the ceremony helps the youth to rid him or herself of some invisible forces of evil associated with the teeth.

beachside post-cremation ceremony

To see a video of the tooth filing ceremony, click here.

I left Tianyar late in the afternoon and headed back to Amed where the guys were giving me a Balinese cooking lesson:  pepes ikan – steamed fish in banana leaves.  It seems that the secret is in the sauce and that’s where we spent most of our time.  They ground about 10 ingredients together with mortar and pestle.  I’m thinking I’ll use a blender when I attempt to recreate this one at home.

You can see my pepes ikan cooking lesson by clicking here.

In another road trip from Amed, I met Wisnu, the great-grandson from the cremation ceremony 2 weeks before.  We met in Candidasa, a lovely village that used to be a hot tourist destination for diving and snorkeling … until people started harvesting the coral from the ocean to use in their houses.  With the coral destruction, the fish habitat was destroyed (and thus the snorkeling and diving attractions) and massive beach erosion took place so now very few tourists come to Candidasa.  Even Wisnu and I only stayed there for 15 minutes before heading on to scope out other interesting places.  

a symbol used in the post-cremation ceremony

In the course of our drive, we came across some post-cremation ceremonies taking place on a beach.  Small groups of people paraded down to the beach and placed what looked like a sekah (soul representation) in the water.  Each group also released a live duck and chicken into the water, presumably as a symbolic sacrifice to the gods, which was promptly chased down and retrieved by some local kids … for eating?  

After the ceremonies, Wisnu took me to see Besakih, considered the holiest temple on the island of Bali. It’s actually a group of many temples inside one temple grounds.  It was lovely.  

Ujung water palace

My last road trip from Amed consisted of viewing two waterpalaces, Tirta Gangga which I had tried to see unsuccessfully twice before and Ujung, both built by the same king and an unbelievable drive on some small winding mountainous roads that hugged the coastline through teeny tiny villages that were way off the tourist map.  

Tirta Ganga bathers

Ujung water palace

salt production in Amed

Other than that, I spent my last 10 days in Bali happily “holed up” in Amed, hanging out with my friends. The day before I left, Shark and Wayan made me a necklace entirely out of frangipani flowers. To see them making it, click here.

In a nutshell, you’re now caught up on my time in Bali.  Shall we move on to Thailand?  

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

When Juha and I arrived at Tanah Lot the previous evening, a ceremony was taking place (Naturally!  It’s Bali, afterall!) and the temple and area surrounding it were bustling with Balinese attending the ceremony and tourists photographing them and the temple itself.  I enjoyed the atmosphere, but also wanted to experience Tanah Lot under more quiet conditions so the next morning, I got up before sunrise to revisit Tanah Lot.  It was dark as I walked the quiet streets to the temple.  What had been a gauntlet of souvenir hawkers the previous night on the strip of road just before entering the temple was now a more passive and receded row of corrugated metal doors, hiding the wares that were tucked away behind them.  As I approached the temple entrance, the only sound that broke the morning quiet was a series of Balinese prayers being played over a loudspeaker some distance away, an almost eery sound as I walked by myself through the darkness. 

Tanah Lot at sunrise

I passed through the gates to the general temple area. It was 5:45 am. Only two priests and a few people sweeping the steps shared the temple area with me.  I walked over the rocks across from the temple, noting that the tide had come up through the night and left small pools of water in the rock crevices.  Some kind of green mossy plant covered much of the rocks and was slippery to walk on after its recent watering from the  sea. I scrambled to the top of a rock that had been covered with tourists the night before and piece by piece hauled up my photo gear and tripod.  As I waited for the sun to come up, the gentle sounds of the ocean waves crashing against the temple rocks and the prayers over the loudspeakers kept me and thoughts company.

As the sun rose, a small stream of Hindu faithful began their march with offering-filled baskets across the temple grounds and up the temple steps.  I was curious to see what the temple looked like inside, but respected the “no tourist” rules.  I wondered what was so different about this temple, the only one off limits to tourists.  As it got more light outside, I noticed small boats of fisherman already at work just offshore of the temple.  “Was it considered lucky to fish near the temple?” I wondered.  

morning fishermen

After getting my photographic fill, I headed back to the hotel.  I inquired with the desk clerk about internet access … I needed to let my family know that I had survived the first segment of my solo-driving bike trip.  “There’s no public internet access here, but you can use our office computer to check your email if you want,” the clerk generously offered.  I swear, the Balinese are the most accommodating people I think I’ve ever met.

After Juha and I had breakfast and revisted the souvenir gauntlet to buy a shirt for him, we packed our bags and hit the road.  Today, we were headed up to the mountainous lake region of Danau Braton.   

As of yet, I’ve never been motorbiking anywhere other than Bali so I can’t really make any comparisons, but here are some observations on motorbiking in Bali.  There is no speed limit in Bali.  The twisting two lane roads that cover most of the island render speed limits unnecessary.  As I became more accustomed to the motorbike, I tended to drive at around 40-60 kph (about 25-38 mph) which seemed about average, if tending a bit toward the cautious side.    

I drove around the island on a little Yamaha Mio, probably the smallest motorbike made and perfect for a petite beginner like me.  It took 2 liters of petrol (it’s called petrol here, not gas) to fill up the tank (which I guess also becomes a “petrol tank” and not a “gas tank”).  During my stay in Bali, a liter of premium petrol cost 6,500 rupiah. After converting liters to gallons and rupiah to dollars, I calculate that petrol in Bali currently costs about $2.86 per gallon.  

When it comes to buying petrol in Bali, you have options.  There’s the standard option of filling up at a petrol station where all the drivers line up their bikes and an attendant fills your tank and takes your money (all cash, no plastic).  The routine goes like this:  get in line and turn off your bike.  Get off the bike, raise the seat, open the gas cap and have your money in hand as you wheel forward in line.  Usually it took 15,000 rupiah to fill up my bike. Small bills (exact change or nothing more than a 20,000 rupiah bill) were preferred as small change is hard to come by (I remember this from Mexico too).  You can pay with a 50,000 bill but it will earn you a scowl.  Present a 100,000 bill (standard issue from many ATM’s) and the attendant will plead, “Don’t you have anything smaller?” despite the fact that they’ve been collecting small bills from people all day long and must have loads of small change.  It’s considered courteous upon filling your tank to roll your bike ahead a bike length, consolidate your belongings and start the bike from there if there are others in line behind you, rather than starting right from the “filling spot.” 

petrol stand

Actual petrol stations in Bali, while not exactly “few and far between,” are pretty sparse.  If you’re enjoying your drive so much that you neglect to keep track of the petrol gauge and find yourself suddenly close to the “E” mark, however, never fear!  The industrious and clever Balinese have figured out a solution.  They recycle discarded plastic water bottles or old glass Absolut vodka bottles, fill those at the petrol station and then have petrol stands on the side of the road where they resell the petrol for 7,000 rupiah per liter.  At this rate, petrol costs about $3.08 per gallon.  Besides the increased price, the downside to buying from the petrol stands is that you risk getting “dirty petrol” which, I later learned first-hand, can cause problems with the bikes carburetor.  As Juha and I left Tanah Lot, I noticed that my bike was “acting funny” (about the extent of my mechanical descriptions) with some then slightly noticeable “stop/start” jumping as I accelerated.  But it ran and Juha didn’t seem to think it was anything I needed to worry about immediately so we just drove on.

The drive up to Danau Braton took about 3 hours.  It was a lovely drive.  We were clearly out of the touristed areas as the industry evident along the roadside metamorphosed from tours and souvenir sales to a more agricultural scene.  As we drove further north, the crops changed from rice paddies to fields of peanuts, soybeans, strawberries and other plants I couldn’t identify.  In addition to agriculture, I enjoyed seeing the other types of industry that existed along the roadside. 

Many guides in Ubud and other areas pitch their tours to the countryside as a chance to see “the REAL Bali.”  As real Balinese live and work in Ubud, Kuta and other touristed areas and as tourism is probably the biggest industry on the island, I don’t really buy into the concept that those places are not the “REAL Bali.”  They are an aspect of the real Bali today.  But the countryside is another side of present day Bali, one that more closely resembles the island-wide scene of Bali past and, I have to agree with the tour guides, is much more appealing to me.  

kids flying a home-made kite

Kite-flying is big in Bali. Every six months, there is an island-wide competition in South Bali and each village makes its own kite to enter in the contest. The kites are huge!  Much larger than kites I flew at home as a kid, the typical Balinese kites measure about 6 feet by 4 feet and sometimes are larger.  Instead of the typical diamond-shaped kites I was accustomed to, the creative Balinese gave animal shapes to theirs.  I’ve seen dragons, lions and animals that appeared to have been created in the imagination of a Balinese kid as they were unrecognizable to me. On our drive, Juha and I stopped beside a field of peanuts to observe some kids attempting to get a kite up in the air.   

Around 2 pm we stopped for lunch.  I saw a sign advertising lawar, one of my favorite Balinese dishes so I promptly pulled over.  Unfortunately, we discovered that the warung only served pork lawar and Juha didn’t eat pork.  Gracious man that he is, he agreed to eat lunch there anyway. I felt a bit guilty enjoying my freshly made lawar and pork soup (some of the best I’ve ever eaten!) while poor Juha ate reconstituted chicken noodle soup from a package.  What a guy!  Toward the end of our lunch, about ten Indonesian men walked into the warung.  Wow! Balinese power lunch, I thought.  This warung with its tasty lawar obviously had the stamp of approval from the locals.  

carefully guarded lawar

About two-thirds of the way through my lawar, I realized I had forgotten to photograph the dish before digging in.  I sheepishly asked one of the men sitting at the table next to me if I could photograph his lawar which he had just received.  I’m not sure he completely understood, but he aquiesced … sort of. He kept his arms protectively around his food while I snapped off a shot.  I guess perhaps he thought I might want to do more than photograph it.  His friends all watched me, amused.  I laughed out loud at how ridiculous my request had been (sometimes I just get a little too obsessed with photography and forget social graces).  They laughed at me laughing and pretty soon the whole restaurant was all chuckling together.  

the Disney characters pose over lunch

Juha and I went back to our private discussion of something … probably how silly I had just been to ask a stranger to photograph his food … and then something funny happened.  Two of the business men approached us and asked if they could have their picture made with us.  I’m rarely one to shy away from a photo request (that would be pretty hypocritical), but there was certainly no way I would conceive of declining after the stunt I had just pulled.  So the men sat on either side of us and had their picture made.  We all chuckled together.  They sat back down and Juha and I went back to our discussion. Then two more men came over with the same request.  We posed with them too … and eventually with the entire group as, two by two, each of the men had their picture made with us.  At this point, it was pretty clear to me that we all were interested in interacting with each other so I invited the men to come sit with us and talk.  Their English was very broken, almost as bad as our Bahasa Indonesia, but through much miming we managed to figure out that they were from Sumbawa, a neighboring island to the east and that they were government employees touring Bali for seven days learning about something:  either how to use land in farming, building, recreation or development … our game of charades kind of fell apart at this point. We shared our travel plans and then all got together for a group photo in back of the restaurant.  As we were wrapping up that “photo shoot,” another man wandered in and announced that he was the local English teacher.  He invited Juha and I to come to his home for dinner and to spend the night but he lived 30 minutes back in the direction we had already come from and we were anxious to make more forward progress. We still got a picture with him and the restaurant owners and he left me with explicit directions to his house in the event we were ever back in the area. 

government employees from Sumbawa

From that point on for several days, I felt like Juha and I were walking around a Disney World amusement park … and we were the Disney characters.  Everyone wanted a picture with us, to shake our hand or to say hello and try to practice some English, stopping just short of asking for autographs. It was highly amusing to be in areas where so few tourists traveled.  

After lunch, we drove a little farther and were rewarded with some amazing views of Lake Braton which was clouded in a dramatic fog from the mountains. We stopped to watch some men repairing the “spider legs” on a fishing boat and then headed down the road about 100 meters to Ulun Danu, a lakeside Hindu temple sitting immediately adjacent to a Buddhist temple. The moody feel of the mountain fog coupled with the perfectly manicured gardens made a perfect backdrop for our photos and Juha and I spent at least an hour there, happily shooting away.  

Ulun Danu temple

Before shooting the “beautiful things,” I stopped to use the bathroom. The farther we strayed from touristy areas, the more common were the tissue-less squat toilets that I had read about and had been dreading.  Luckily, I was a Girl Scout and prepared with tissue (my Mom, queen of preparedness, would have been so proud!).  The rest, you just kind of “deal with.”   

I quickly forgot the squat toilet as Juha and I passed through a fabulous playground with vintage pieces of rusty play equipment. I had to stop and play on each piece and Juha indulged me in taking photos of my silliness.

a typical Southeast Asia squat toilet

vintage playground

As the sun dipped down, the already cool temperature dropped dramatically.  I was freezing and wished that I had brought more than one long sleeve shirt with me – I had pretty much only brought the bare bones of things I thought I would need and left the rest of my belongings in Ubud.  I was so cold that I even put socks under my sandals, ignoring the fashion faux pas in favor of some extra warmth.  I became anxious to find a warm place to stay for the night. 

We managed to find a very posh resort (almost as nice as the one we “almost” stayed at in Tanah Lot) perched on the rim of a volcano crater in a small village about 30 minutes north of the slightly larger village of Bedugul.  It was obviously not high season as the place was deserted so we bargained our way into a lovely room.  I relished the hot water and thick blankets inside – indulging first in a delightfully long hot and steamy shower and then curling up in my pajamas and burrowing under a blanket while Juha and I watched a dodgy pirated copy of War, Inc. on my laptop.

monkey enjoying the view inside a volcanic crater

The next day, we continued our drive hugging the volcano crater’s edge which made for spectacular views along with lots of ear popping.  On the opposite side of the crater from where we’d stayed the night before, we came across some forest monkeys hanging out right by the side of the road, clearly used to being fed by passers-by.  After my experience with the monkey bite my second day in Bali, I stayed a good distance away from those guys although I did stop for a photo of them and the crater lake in the background. 

We biked all day and the terrain around us changed from flat ground to rolling hills to steep mountain passes with many switchbacks.  My confidence driving the bike on slightly curvy roads had improved greatly, but 45 degree drops and U-pin turns were another story.  This drive was a motorcyclists dream, but I felt it was wasted on a novice like myself, driving at about 15 kph.  I became even more careful after Juha and I passed an overturned truck that had apparently taken one of the curves too sharply.  

overturned truck in mountainous switchback area (photo per Juha Myohanen)

WWe didn’t stop for many photographs on the way as the drive itself along with general jungle-like greenery surrounding the roads were the main attractions.  During all the driving, thought, I kept noticing that my bike was still “acting funny” and at one point, it just completely quit. Luckily, there was a mechanic only about 100 feet away so we pulled in and watched as he disassembled my bike and cleaned the carburetor.  He worked for about an hour … and then charged 5,000 rupiah (about $0.50) for his work.  I happily paid him 10,000 (and wish now I’d given him more) and he was thrilled.  The bike still wasn’t perfect when we left (I later discovered I needed a spark plug replacement) but at least it was running again and got us all the way to Banjar, our stop for the night.  

motorbike surgery

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

(Although I’m currently in Thailand, I have a lot of catching up to do on stories and experiences from Bali.  Over the next few days, I’m going to try to my best to get caught up on those before moving on to blog entries about Thailand.)

Typically, when I take a trip, I research the hell out of it before I go. Nothing burns me up more than to be in a place, do my thing, go home and discover that only blocks from where I was was the coolest little thing that I could have seen/done/tasted … if only I’d known.  I don’t really make out minute-by-minute itineraries.  OK. Who am I kidding?  Of course I do!  Or at least I’ve done that in the past.   What can I say? I like to cram it all in and there’s always loads more to see and do than time allows.  In some regards, I can be a really laid back traveler and rather enjoy the oddities that come my way.   In fact, oddities are sort of what I seek when I’m traveling.  But sleeping in until 10am or, God forbid, noon and wasting all that precious travel time that you can’t get back???!!!  Yeah.  Not so laid back in that department.  So I guess my travel style could be described as Mussolini on the outside with a soft Ghandi core. Or maybe it’s the reverse.  Not surprisingly, I frequently travel alone. 

Before going to Indonesia, I studied the Indonesian language for 4 weeks and read every travel guide I could find on Bali.  I also read travel fiction books set in Bali, Thailand and Vietnam and watched any movie that was set in or filmed in those countries – all in the name of preparation … or at least trying to fit into my head some idea of what to expect.

During my travel throughout Bali, however, I found that my travel style changed.  Mussolini, whether inside or out, kind of melted away as I developed more of a “let’s just see what happens” mantra.  Maybe it was the luxury of having six weeks in Bali that helped me feel like I didn’t need to cram it all into six days.  Or maybe it was just Bali’s laid-back spirit that I absorbed through osmosis.  Whatever the reason, “let’s see” was the motto of my most recent and last road trip through Bali.  

Tegalalan rice terraces

Before I could take off, I had to master (or at last substantially improve) my skills on the motorbike.  For several days after I got back from my road trip with Mun, I practiced late at night in Ubud when the streets were nearly empty, save for the street dogs.  On the fourth day, I took a test drive to Tegalalan, a village about 30 minutes north of Ubud which has gorgeous terraced rice fields.  I made it, got some nice photos of the rice paddies, managed to stave off the relentless sellers of chopsticks, sarongs and other souvenirs that wouldn’t fit in my backpack and headed back to Ubud.  I even relished the little bit of road grit in my teeth which I chalked up to a biker’s rite of passage.  Although not exactly a road warrior, I felt confident enough on the motorbike to undertake a second unguided Bali roadtrip, this time driving the motorbike instead of riding on the back.

Juha imitating a stone Buddha

The week before, I had met a Finnish man, Juha, through Couchsurfing during a rice paddy walk in Ubud.  He had also traveled with Mun and me for a day in Amed.   He had been traveling for about 14 months on a quest to see the world and was “tired of making decisions about where to go and what to see.”  I often meet people during my travels and, if I sense they are like-minded travelers, am open to joining forces for a while.    Juha seemed like-minded so I invited him to join me.  He was all for letting someone else play tour guide so he decided to afollow me around Bali for a week on his own motorbike before heading back to Finland. I decided our first stop should be Tanah Lot, one of the most sacred temples in Bali. I had seen photos of it on postcards (my new alternative-to-a-guidebook method of deciding where I wanted to go) and it looked stunning!  From the photos, the temple appeared to be suspended in mid-air on a giant, interestingly shaped rock slightly offshore of Bali’s rocky Southwest coast.  Entrance to the temple is off-limits to tourists.  Even the sea, however, could deny access to non-tourists as the temple is accessible to potential worshippers only in low tides.  The photos on the cheap postcards showing Tanah Lot washed out in the mid-afternoon sun with ocean waves lapping at the base were intriguing.  The more expensive postcards featured Tanah Lot in all her glory, basking in the setting sun.  Stunning.  Tanah Lot had definitely made the list of “Road Trip Places to See.”  

plan for the second Bali road trip

Juha had been staying in South Bali so I headed to Denpasar to meet him.  He had to mail some packages so we settled on the post office as a meeting point.  When I later looked at a map of Denpasar, it occurred to me that we hadn’t specified WHICH post office since neither of us had been there or knew where they were.  I hoped that Juha would read my mind and also think to go to the main post office, the only one marked on my map.  So that’s where I headed.  

I drove about 30-40 kph (only about 18-25 mph), hugging the left side of the road (they drive on the left here).  The streets didn’t exactly follow what was reflected on my map so, as when I was driving around with Mun two weeks before, I frequently stopped to ask, “Dimana Denpasar?” (“Where is Denpasar?”).  The answers always came in the form of an arm chopping the air in a certain direction, a motion resembling the signature tomahawk chop of Atlanta Braves baseball fans.  Just as well since I understood very little Indonesian anyway.  

I was definitely a tentative and overly cautious driver, but I felt the ride was going well … until 1.5 hours into the trip when I hit the Superhighway in Denpasar.  All of a sudden, the road widened from 2 relatively quiet lanes (1 in each direction) to 6 lanes!  More than the tomahawk-like directions were making me feel like I was driving in Atlanta. I and my little motorbike were on a virtual interstate! Huge trucks were barreling down on us.  The lines marking driving lanes were apparently mere suggestions.  I wanted to stay to the left, in what I deemed the “safe zone,” but somewhere ahead I had to turn right.  I knew the turn would sneak up on me and I definitely didn’t want to try to cut across all 3 lanes of maniacal Denpasar drivers at the last minute, so I steeled my nerves, ground my teeth on some road grit for good measure and crossed through the torrent to the far right.  This was apparently an unpopular move with the masses as I drew what seemed like hundreds of honks on my way.  I sped up to 60kph just so I wouldn’t get run over.  Of course there were no assurances, but I figured speeding up would at least decrease the chances of it happening.  The sight of huge trucks right on my tail filled my mirrors.  

My thoughts raced as fast as my heart and the traffic around me.  Oh God!  Where’s that #$^(^#%& turn anyway????  Juha, why didn’t I just tell you to meet me in quiet little Tanah Lot?  Here’s what looks like a major road.  No street sign.  But this MUST be it.  Shit, shit, shit!  Ok, ok, ok … I’m going for it!  [makes right turn crossing through 3 more lanes of oncoming traffic.]  

The road I turned right on, although major, is no Superhighway.  What a relief to be off that suicidal stretch.  After about 10 blocks, my heart rate slowed back down to almost normal.  After 15 blocks, I was beginning to question whether I made the right call.  There was no sign of the post office where I was supposed to meet Juha.  Finally, I pulled over and asked someone, “Dimana Kantor Pos?”  The tomahawk chop began … back in the direction I’d come from.  Oh no!  Ugh!  You’ve got to be kidding me!  I turned too early and now I needed to get back on the road from hell?  I was desperately wishing that I could call Juha, change the plan and just meet in Tanah Lot, our destination for the day, but because his number is international, my phone will accept calls from him, but not make them.  I can’t just not show up … although the thought seriously crossed my mind to just head to Tanah Lot and email him from there an apologetic “come meet me. I’m a wimp on a motorbike.” 

I drew on one of the faults that tops my list of character flaws … stubbornness … and reluctantly turned the bike around back toward Suicidal Superhighway.  My heart pounded like a rabbit again as I was assaulted with honks, threatening looks and even a rock that flew from a truck’s wheel and missed my head by inches.  I drew on a second flaw – extreme abilities to disassociate from any situation.  I was no longer scared.  I was mad, determined and just downright steeled.  I was going to make it to that flipping post office if it’s the last thing I did (and at this rate, it very well might be!).

Thankfully, some verbal landmarks came along with the tomahawk chop that sent me back to the interstate so this time when I made a right turn on another unmarked major road, I was fairly certain I was on the right track.  Yet still, 25 blocks and no sign of the post office.  Defeated, I pulled over to a laundromat on the side of the road.  “Dimana kantor pos?” I asked pathetically.  At least this time, the tomahawk was pointed in the right direction and wasn’t sending me back to suicide alley.  Unfortunately, it was followed by about 5 more chops in different directions.  Basically I was being told “Go straight.  Then a right (somewhere). Then a left (somewhere).  Keep going.  Chop chop chop.”  My disappointment must have shown in my eyes.  A man who had just retrieved his clean clothes offered, “Would you like to follow me there?”  Thank goodness he didn’t know that I would have eagerly kissed him, bought him dinner and possibly given him children for this information!  He did it for a smile.  And 10 minutes later I arrived at the post office.  What would have taken a local about an hour to drive from Ubud to the main post office in Denpasar took me three.  Whew! 

Oh just wait until I tell Juha what all I’ve been through!  I was two hours past my designated meeting time with him at this point.  Surely he must know that I had difficulty getting here, I thought.  I parked my bike, lugged my heavy backpack off the bike and onto my back and huffed into the post office, looking for a big white man with a silver scraggly beard.  Shouldn’t be that difficult to spot, I thought.  But there were no white people anywhere.  Hmmm, maybe he had trouble getting here too.  

The post office had a rudimentary internet cafe inside so I went in and shot Juha a message.  “I’ve arrived!  Please call or show up.”  I did some more emailing, but after 30 minutes, still no contact from Juha.  “I’m starving and going across the street for lunch,” said my second email. “Meet me there when you get here or just wait.  I’ll be right back.”  

stone fish "swimming" in their tank

I wandered across the street and found a very interesting Japanese restaurant.  Live seafood was their specialty and they had many different varieties in large tanks in their front window.  Business was slow that afternoon so the manager gave me a personal tour.  He proudly pointed out stone fish, eels, grouper, lobster in four different types and sizes in addition to a variety of other fish and sea creatures.  Unfortunately, the seafood dishes were made to order and usually served 3-4 people so I settled for a comparatively boring chicken and noodle dish.  When I returned from washing off the road dust I had accumulated on my way to Denpasar, I saw that I had missed a call from Juha. Damn!  I ate my lunch and hurried back over to the post office.  No sign of Juha.  I checked my email messages (nothing from him) so I did a little more internet work and waited for his call.  

 Finally the call came. “I’m in Matahari shopping center,” he said casually.  “What about the post office?” I asked.  “I went to one already and now I’m at the Matahari shopping center.”  A man standing nearby indicated the shopping center was close by.  I was really hoping Juha would volunteer to come meet me at the post office since that was our original plan and I was still rattled from my earlier Denpasar driving, but he sounded grounded at the shopping center.  So off I went again asking “Dimana? Dimana?” about 5 times until I finally found it.  Another 2 dimanas got me to the food court where Juha was sitting.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” I said, still anxious to tell him about my horrendous morning.  “Only for four hours,” he said.  I think I detected a note a grumpiness although he’s Finnish so it could also be that (not that I’m saying the Finnish are grumpy people; they just don’t put on the “dog and pony smile show” … or so Juha tells me).  Sensing his mood, I decided to wait and tell him share my driving horror stories over a beer that evening.  

We sat for a bit, got rehydrated and hit the road.  After a couple wrong turns trying to find our way out of town (I’m hating Denpasar by this time), we finally find a road sign that says “Tanah Lot!”  Hallelujah and glory be!  From that point until we got to Tanah Lot, about 45 minutes later, road signs clearly marked our way.  I was fearful that the word “dimana” was going to disappear from my vocabulary.

Now that the way was clearly marked, I could relax and enjoy the drive.  The sun was out and the day was beautiful.  We passed rice fields filled with mature rice ready for harvesting.  I laughed at a rustic wooden sign with hand-painted letters that advertised “Playstation” and another that invited guests to play miniature golf in a rice field (I imagined a giant sprig of rice in a mini rice paddy as a water hazard and a large motorized quacking duck whose mouth was the target hole.)  We drove through a village still decorated from the Galungan/Kuningan festival with pretty penjors lining their streets.  The decorating committee had obviously convened and organized the villagers as all the shrines of one side of the street were decked out in yellow while the shrines opposite where cloaked in white.

Finally, we saw a sign that indicated we had entered Tanah Lot.  As Juha was riding behind me and we didn’t have verbal communication, I raised my left arm in the air and shook my fist in a sign of victory.  I didn’t see the police officer parked at the “village limits” sign.  Juha later told me the officer gave me a strange look at my gesture.  

We had arrived!  Yay!  We decided to go find a hotel and dump our heavy bags (my bigscreen laptop and photo gear keep me from ever traveling light even though it’s compressed into small bags) before catching the sunset at Tanah Lot temple.

First, let me tell you a little about hotels in Bali.  In the first place, they’re very inexpensive.  The majority of them range from $5-20 per night – ideal for a long-term traveler’s budget.  The room amenities will also range from fan only (no a/c) with a cold water shower to rooms with a/c (which really isn’t necessary throughout most of Bali’s temperate night-time climate) and hot water showers.  There are some hotels in Bali that charge “normal” US prices for a room and range from $75 per night to over $1000.  Of course you get more for your money in Bali as the $75 room here is more like a $1000 room at home.  But I don’t require that kind of luxury.  The higher end of those hotels don’t exist for me in the States, so as far as I’m concerned, they don’t exist for me in Bali either.  Sure I could stay there, but then I’d have to come home in two months instead of seven.  Easy decision.

The first hotel we stopped at was very rudimentary.  It was fan only (no problem), but had no shower at all, only a mandi.  Almost all Balinese (and, I understand, Indonesian) bathrooms have a mandi, which is a tub that stands about two to three feet high and about two feet across.  The mand is filled with water.  To take a bath, you don’t get into the mandi.  Instead, you stand next to the mandi and scoop water from it and pour it onto yourself.  You don’t put “dirty” or used water back in the mandi which is your clean water supply.  Naturally, since the water in the mandi sits there all day, the water is never hot.

Juha and I had decided ahead of time that neither of us required a/c, or TV but hot water would be nice.  (Frankly, some of the coastal areas of tropical Bali are warm and humid enough during the day that I find a cold shower refreshing and often opt for that in the evening even when hot water is an option.)   While neither of us were opposed to a cold water room if that was our only option, we did, however, want to have an actual shower and not a mere mandi so we passed on this hotel and moved on down the road.  We had to laugh that despite the lack of any amenities, the man wanted to charge 100,000 rupiah (a little more than $10) for the room, a room that would have been lucky to bring $4 in Ubud.  This was a well-touristed area, I thought, so I guess the prices are a little higher  here.  

We drove a few blocks and saw a small metal road sign with a picture of a bed.  Neither of us had seen any advertising this “formal” before in Bali and were curious.  We turned our motorbikes down the road and drove … and drove … and drove.  The grounds were meticulously manicured.  The longer the drive went without seeing any sign of a hotel, the more ch-chings I heard on the cash register in my head. We finally came to a guard post (ch-ching, ch-ching, ch-ching).  I suppose few of the guests at this resort arrive on motorbike so we were given a once over at least a few times (would that make it a thrice over?) before we were allowed to pass.  What the heck? We were already here … or almost, depending how much longer the driveway stretched.  We might as well ask about the room price.   

no bugles allowed ... or car horns

I laughed out loud at a sign posted at the entrance to the golf course we motored past.  The sign had a picture of a bugle in a circle with a line through it.  “What?  No bugles?” I thought.  What kind of place had we come to that bugles were so popular that guests needed to be told affirmatively not to bring them?  I laughed for a good five minutes (the driveway continued to stretch onward) … and then laughed at myself as I belatedly got the reference … no horns.  Sheesh.  Sometimes I have to wonder how I made it through law school.  Or high school for that matter.

At long last, Juha and I actually saw the hotel.  Definitely resort material.  We pulled our bikes under the canopied “welcome” area and headed inside to inquire about a room. Before we made it to the second step, the doorman (ch-ching, ch-ching, ch-ching) asked us to move our bikes to a different area.  The place was virtually empty, but I suppose our motor scooters were unsightly and not in tune with the cliental they were trying to attract.  Or who knows why.  At this point, Juha and I took bets on how much the room would cost.  His bet $45.  My bet $75.  Dollars, not rupies.  

Bikes properly parked, we walked in, prepared for a quick dismissal and back on the bikes.  “How much is a room here?” we asked.  The lovely, well-dressed and groomed Balinese woman behind the counter told us, “The normal price for a standard room is two hundred, but we can give you a special price today of one hundred sixty-five.”  Naturally, in Bali, prices are typically quoted in their currency – rupiah.  At this time of this writing the exchange rate was approximately 9100 rupiah to the dollar so even a $5 room sounded phenomenally expensive at 50,000 rupiah.  “One hundred sixty-five thousand?” Juha asked, making sure we were talking rupiah and not dollars.  This was too good to be true!  A $17 room at this smashing place?  “Rupiah or dollars?” I chimed in.  We both heard “rupiah” as the answer so, convinced we’d found the best bargain in all of Bali, we asked to see a room.  

The lovely young lady escorted us to a room with a lovely teak door.  She opened the door and, ahhhhhhhh, the cool air brushed past my face.  Air conditioning!  I hadn’t experienced this since I arrived in Bali!  The room was brilliantly decorated with very modern Balinese appointments.  There was a full size tub in an extravagantly large bathroom that had doors which could open up to lovely bedroom.  My accommodations in Bali up to that point, which I had previously regarded as perfectly fine, more than adequate even, now looked like shanties compared to this luxurious room.  Score! 

We didn’t have to think twice.  “Yes, no problem. We’ll stay here,” we fell over ourselves exclaiming practically in unison.  The lovely lady escorted us back to the front desk to check in.  While we were waiting, another beautiful Balinese girl brought us mango juice and wet towels to refresh our hands and faces.  We beamed at a young Western couple who were also checking in, acknowledging that we had all been so smart as to find this brilliant bargain jewel.  Juha and I toasted each other with our fresh juice that we hadn’t turned around in the face of all the signs of opulence. If this had been a movie, cheery soundtrack music would have begun playing in the background.  It was perfect! 

The desk clerk delivered the paperwork and asked for a credit card.  “Oh we’ll just pay cash, “ I told her.  “We’re only staying for one night” (although thoughts of spending my remaining three weeks here were already circling in my head). “Ok. The minimum deposit is 2,000,0000 rupies,” she said with a smile.  Screech!  The soundtrack music playing in my head comes to an abrupt and jarring stop.  The juice turns sour in my mouth and the refreshing cloth becomes a snake in my hands.  Ok, not really, but an ugly reality was setting in.  

“Two millions rupies?” Juha asked.  “The room is only 165,000 rupies.”  “Dollars,” the lovely clerk corrected, smiling the entire time.  “The room is $165 US dollars.”  

We turned red, embarrassed at our mistake.  We both looked at each other, dumbfounded.  “Didn’t we clarify that the price was rupies before we looked at the room?” “I thought so.” “I thought it was too good to be true, but she said rupies.”  “Didn’t she say it more than once?” “I thought so.”  Well, regardless of what we had thought, we now knew that it was time to move on.  “Thanks anyway for your hospitality,” we said, exiting with our tails tucked between our legs.  

Tanah Lot temple at sunset

It was now late in the afternoon and we needed to find a hotel soon if we were going to catch the Tanah Lot sunset unburdened.  Someone on the road told us that there was a hotel on the Tanah Lot property itself.  We gave it a shot, negotiated an acceptable rate and dropped our stuff in the room … just in time to catch the sunset.

After watching parts of a ceremony outside the temple and taking loads of photos, we walked the gauntlet through dozens of souvenir sellers and made our way to dinner.  “Well, Juha,” I started, “if Day 1 of this road trip is any indication, we have an interesting week ahead of us.  I think I need a beer tonight.”

I never imagined that I would be so unexcited about going to Thailand.  Thailand had been my dream for the past several years.  Yet here I sit in the airport in Jakarta, Indonesia awaiting my flight for Bangkok … already “homesick” for Bali.  

Yesterday morning, I left my beloved Amed.  A Balinese woman riding in the back of a truck on her way to market gave a quizzical look to the red-headed Westerner riding on the back of a motorbike with tears streaming down her face.  Did she frequently see teary-eyed tourists on their way out of Bali? Or did she imagine some other reason for my watery eyes?  

Bali's gorgeous rice terraces

For the first hour of the winding trip back to Ubud where I was returning my motorbike, I was inconsolable. The sights that usually warmed my heart only tore at it yesterday morning: the yellow-green terraced rice paddies settled on rolling hills, elephant-sized leaves of banana trees waving in the wind seeming to fan the passersby below, children in neatly pressed uniforms on their way to school, women balancing various buckets, baskets and assundries on their heads on their way to market, men sporting machetes as they worked in the fields, the winding roads that twisted their way through the mountains – a motorcyle driver’s dream, the smell of incense perfuming the air and the sight of Balinese everywhere making their morning offerings.  Oh, cry cry cry.  Bali, I love you and don’t want to leave! 

Unfortunately, before I even left the States, I had committed to leaving Indonesia on September 22. That commitment took the form of a non-refundable plane ticket from Jakarta to Bangkok.  I had actually planned to leave Bali September 15 to spend one week on the neighboring island of Java before heading to the Kingdom of Thailand, but couldn’t bear to go so soon, so I stayed in Bali, grounded in Amed.  I went to a travel agent in Ubud four days ago to try to postpone my departure from Indonesia.  Unfortunately, the only way to stay meant just throwing away the ticket I had already purchased without any refund or credit.  Even if I was willing to do that, my visa expired the first of October which would only buy me an extra eight days.  So with a heavy heart, I headed back to Amed and delivered the news to my guys: I’m leaving Amed September 21 and flying to Bangkok early in the morning on September 22.  

Sweet Wayan Mendota (curly-haired Wayan) who uses his car to transport tourists around the island for a living was giving me a lift back to Amed when I sprung the news on him.  He immediately offered to drive me along with the available Amed Scuba guys to Kuta when it was time for me to go, so we planned a small send-off with a little gathering on the beach in South Bali.  

Wayan Mendota (far right) along with Wayan 1 and Shark at a beach cookout

This sparked an interesting discussion with Ali, ever the philosopher.  He essentially refused to tell me goodbye or ackowledge in any significant way that I was going or that anything would be any different.  “I don’t go to airports anymore to tell anyone goodbye,” he told me.  “I knew a German tourist who stayed here for three months. She became the girlfriend of one of my good friends and we spent a lot of time hanging out together.  When she told me she was leaving, it really hurt.  I knew she was going to come to my shop on her way out of town to say goodbye so I closed my shop and sat up on the hill.  Sure enough, she came by and called to me, ‘Ali! Ali!’  But I didn’t want to say goodbye so I just sat up on the hill where I could see her, but she couldn’t see me and I watched her go.  Bob Marley had it right when he sang, ‘Good friends we’ve had and good friends we’ve lost along the way.’”

I had a sudden realization, as I often do in discussions with Ali. The guys from Amed  (and many Balinese all over the island) encounter lots of tourists on their holidays. We blow in, love them, love their island and culture and then go home or on to other destinations and they’re left holding their hearts in their hands, not going anywhere. After hearing Ali’s point of view, I have a whole new appreciation for them now and the resiliancy of their hearts.  They know the tourists they come to love will eventually leave … and yet they still offer their hearts for the duration of the visit anyway.  They know that, bitter as the goodbyes are, the sweetness in the temporary connection is greater and worth the heartache when it eventually does come. 

bull and lion sarcophagi for upcoming cremation ceremony

I reflect on this as sweet, caretaking Bagong drives me back to Ubud.  This reflection along with the sun warming my shoulders and Bagong’s continued assurances that “It’s all good. It’s going to be okay,” eventually do make it all okay in my mind.  My heart stops aching (as much), my eyes stop tearing and I thoroughly enjoy and embrace all the sights of Bali as Bagong and I whiz past.  I even notice a few new things I hadn’t seen before: some of the mature rice fields have thin gauzy nets stretched over them presumably to keep the birds away from the grain that’s so close to harvest.  Sometimes the nets overlap and the whispy whiteness looks like a breeze that’s simultaneously blowing yet come to a halt over the rice paddy.  Or maybe they look more like giant cobwebs.  I can’t decide.  

We drove through a village that was preparing for a mass cremation to take place September 26.  Two lion and six bull sarcophagi have been prepared to carry the bodies to heaven and are standing sentry by the roadside as Bagong and I pass.  I haven’t seen anything like them in person during my time in Bali – only photographs. Ugh!  I’m kicking myself that I’m leaving 4 days too early!  I console myself with the thought that these ceremonies and many others are constantly occurring in Bali and will still be here when I come back. I’m certain that I will. 

babi guling from Ibu Oka

Bagong and I made it to Ubud in time for me to have a Skype conference with my family and then we went to check off one of the items on my to-do list … eat suckling pig (babi guling).  Most countries have a signature national dish.  If Bali were a nation and not just an island, babi guling  would undoubtedly be the national dish. It’s served at all the important ceremonies and events.  Somehow, I’ve managed to spend 6 weeks in Bali without having eaten it so Bagong and I head to the place in Ubud known to serve the best suckling pig:  Ibu Oka.  I now have yet another reason to come back to Bali.  It’s one of the best dishes I’ve eaten since setting foot on the island!  Ibu Oka serves an overly generous portion (neither Bagong or I could come close to finishing ours and regretted not just splitting a single order) of pork and in a variety of ways. The dish contains the roasted pork meat itself, tender, juicy and covered in spices; the skin cooked to a crispy sweet crunch; two different kinds of sausage; pork lawar (a veggie-based dish with small chopped pieces of pork mixed in) and a little bit of lung (I passed that part on to Bagong – it’s his favorite).  Oh and of course, plain steamed rice on the side as no Balinese meal is complete without it.  

Bagong in front of a rice field temple

Ibu Oka is understandably very popular and, accordingly, incredibly crowded.  I could tell that Bagong, who is a country boy to the core, was getting “itchy” being in the “crowded city” of Ubud so after stuffing ourselves, we went for one last drive in the countryside before turning in the motorbike.  We went down random roads that I had never explored before, marveling at the green rice fields with their many single temples where farmers prayed for healthy harvests.  We laughed at the quacking ducks wading through the brown stalks in rice fields already harvested looking for bugs and eels.  Each time we would come to more than two houses in a row, Bagong would say “not natural,” turn the bike around and head in a different direction.

At 4pm, we turned in the bike and soon after, Wayan Mendota along with Shark (who calls me Mama and who I’ve come to call Panak Kia which means Baby Boy Shark) and Wayan from Amed Scuba showed up with the car and we all drove to Kuta where I would spend the night.  Nyoman had customers doing a night dive that night and was unable to make it.  Miskin and Putu also had things to attend to so it was only a small band of us who journeyed South. On the drive to Kuta, the guys started singing the song “Leaving on a Jet Plane” which goes “I’m leaving on a jet plane. Don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh babe, I hate to go.”  I’m sure I’m not the first tourist they’ve sung this to, but it brought tears to my eyes anyway.  Man, are they ever right about how much I hate to go! 

our last supper together (Bagong is so sad!)

We had planned on spending a few hours on the beach in Kuta before they headed home, but on the way there, Wayna Mendota spotted a big sale on QuickSilver clothing, one of their favorite brands.  We shopped together for shirts for everyone … and that’s pretty much how we spent our last time together.  After my emotional roller coaster earlier in the day, I decided that a shopping party was probably better than a teary-eyed beach party where goodbyes would be more drawn out and painful.  As always, he had fun together which is the main thing.  

So here I am, now on the plane to Bangkok, still heartsick for Bali, Amed and all the friends and family I gained in the past six weeks … but also curious about what awaits in Thailand.  Maybe I’ll become as attached to that land and its people as I have to Bali and the Balinese.  On one hand, I hope so – that would make for an amazing 6 weeks.  On the other hand, I hope not. As much as I’m embracing it, I’m still feeling the sting of goodbye.

I’m writing from Amed, the sleepy fishing village that tugged at my heart three weeks ago.  Technically, I’m still in the middle of my road trip. I’m just not making any more forward progress for the moment, happy to settle temporarily in a place that’s full of friends and that fits me like a glove.  I’ve been here for eight days now and think I’ll stay another three.  Or maybe five … or eight.  My original plan was to leave Bali September 15, but I’ve fallen in love with this island and am finding myself postponing my departure.  I can easily see how people come here for a short vacation and then never go home.  And that is particularly true for me of Amed.

my new home ... the upstairs of Amed Scuba

So having spent eight days in a place described as a “sleepy fishing village,” you’re probably wondering why you haven’t seen more blog entries from me.  There have actually been a number of contributing factors.  When I arrived in Amed, I had the beginnings of what “blossomed” into a 10-day+ horrendous cold and lost my voice almost completely for four of those days.  The cold is still with me, but on its last legs thank goodness.  How do you get a cold in the tropics? Well, who knows exactly the source of each and every cold one gets, but I suspect that driving from cool, mountainous Ubud to warm coastal Tanah Lot, then up into and on top of the downright freezing mountains and through to the hot northern coast has something to do with it.  (I’m planning to tell you all about that trip at some point.  It appears that I’ve gotten wholly into the spirit of “Bali time” though so I won’t even pretend to make any promises as to when, but hopefully soon!) At any rate, all that is to say that I was really sick for my first 4 days in Amed. 

The main culprit in my distance from the keyboard, though, isn’t my cold.  It’s Amed itself.  Amed is a beautiful, peaceful place.  The water is an inviting clear blue color.  The road hugging the water’s edge runs like a roller coaster, at first straight and at sea level and then suddenly soaring up to the sky.  The next thing you know, you’re on a rocky cliff overlooking the curve of the water below into a quiet cove.  Cheerful colored quaint hollowed-out wooden boats fill the sea in the morning with hopeful fisherman and in the afternoon they decorate the rocky beaches.  The villagers, typically cheerful Balinese people, wave and shout hellos to everyone passing by on motorbikes, locals and tourists alike. But for me, the magic of Amed is concentrated in one special place: Amed Scuba.  

The first time I came here, I was charmed by the way the guys who work and hang out here interact with each other.  Although mostly in their mid-twenties, they have a endearing innocence about them that’s reminiscent of young teenagers. They’re completely sincere, although rarely serious; always joking, laughing and teasing with each other, their guests and customers.  They take care of each other and have an easy manner together that is devoid of the typical testosterone-charged atmosphere when western men get together, although they’re in no way effeminate.  As I watch them work, play and eat together, it’s clear to me in the way they share everything and work cooperatively what a marvelous team they are.  Although I’m trying, I’m really failing to adequately describe them, other than to say they’re clearly quite a special group of individuals around whom I feel very comfortable and happy.  

In fact, during this second visit here, I’ve come to think of four of them in particular as family. They have taken me in as a sort of a big sister and I’ve ensconced myself in their quasi-traditional Balinese life … at least for the time being.  Over the past eight days, I feel like I’ve gained four younger brothers as well as a host of other friends.

Nyoman Sariana, owner of Amed Scuba

Nyoman, 26 and the owner of Amed Scuba, is the main jester of the bunch, silly and monkey-like in his antics, but also a good leader, well-respected and much liked by the others. Bagong, who I call “shy shy cat,” at 25 is the hardest worker in the group.  Tall and skinny, he’s a natural caretaker, sweet and thoughtful of everyone around him as well as an amazing cook.  He seems to have put himself in charge of my comfort here as he’s always doing extra nice things for me:  bringing a baby chicken for me to watch and enjoy, washing my motorbike, surprising me with a soda from the shop down the street, chopping everything for me when I cook … the list goes on.  Wayan, 20, also a good worker, lives for tunes. Each day, I feed him a steady diet of my favorite music via my iPod which I loan to him every morning.  He returns it in the evening for recharging and a new playlist.  Shark, 19, is the curly-headed baby of the bunch.  He’s quiet, lost in his world of music, but spends much time doting on a chicken the group recently acquired to enter in a cockfight.  At the request of my brother John (my American brother that is), we’ve named the chicken Little Jerry Seinfeld.  Despite the fact that all Jerry does is blink at us, crow and peck at his corn, I think we’ve all become rather attached to him so I think he’s safe from becoming dinner anytime soon … unless of course he loses his fight.  I spend most of my time with these four guys as they actually work at Amed Scuba.  

Bagong giving my motorbike a bath

The dive shop is the same kind of communal gathering spot as an old-timey barbershop (or as Douglas Hardware in Brookport, Illinois) though so there are a number of other regulars who spend a lot of time here, but don’t actually work here. Putu and I naturally connected because of our shared name.  He drives a bemo which is like a public transportation shuttle bus.  He’s a live wire, always laughing and creating mischief. Everyone agrees that he’s a little bit crazy – or, as they say here, “one o’clock.”  Ali, 28, is Nyoman’s very wise older brother.  A former rastafarian, he’s very spiritual and enjoys deep philosophical conversations.  He runs a silver jewelry shop for a living, but plays guitar and sings on the side at a few restaurants around town.  Miskin, 26, is a student in law school. He’s very bright, energetic and outgoing and is also quite interesting to talk with.

Shark holding Little Jerry Seinfeld

When I first got to Amed, I stayed in the same hotel as last time which is right next door to Amed Scuba.  For some reason though, water was only dripping from the shower  and only one of the lights in the room worked which meant I could barely see after dark.    When the owner wasn’t able to repair these things after three days, I was ready to find a new home.  I asked Nyoman for recommendations for hotels close by.  He would hear none of it and insisted I stay in the guest room upstairs at his shop.  He told me that he had occasionally used this room when he was too tired to drive to his home, but most recently it had been mainly used as a spare room.

I went next door to pack my bags and was astonished when I returned to find that the guys had jumped into action in my absence and had completely cleaned and rearranged the room for my stay.  The bed was freshly made and flowers were laid out on my pillow.  Later that evening, when I came back from using the internet, the guys had piled up all kinds of creature comforts at the bedroom door to make my stay more pleasant:  a fan, special lotion to keep mosquitoes away, fresh towels and blankets and lots of extra pillows.  Each day since then, they’ve continued to leave something at my door to make me more comfortable and/or bring a smile to my face.  

my bed with fresh flowers per "the guys"

When I was suffering through the worst stages of my cold, they put much thought and effort into making me well.  Over the course of several days, Ali sent Wayan to buy ginger and they made me ginger tea. Nyoman picked up some medicine from the pharmacy for me and Bagong mixed up a homemade Balinese remedy that his grandmother had taught him called “loloh” which was herbs, water, salt and onion.  The loloh actually tasted quite good in the morning when the herbs were most fresh.  My second and third batches which Bagong supervised in the afternoon and evening tasted more of salt than herbs as the batch had settled and become less fresh through the day.

loloh - traditional Balinese herbal medicine

Three days ago in the afternoon,  the guys took me to see some rice fields out in the country where farmers still use cows to plow the soil.  We sat on the cliff overlooking the field while the farmer and his cows tilled the soil.  Ali made us all laugh when he sighed and with a big grin said, “There’s nothing better than watching other people work.”  After the rice fields, we went to see a waterfall.  At least I thought that was the plan. I didn’t actually see the waterfall because the guys had decided they were going to take fresh water showers under it so I waited under a large banyan tree, drinking a soda they had bought for me, watching some local village kids play soccer in a dusty field with a lovely temple as a backdrop.  

traditional farming

For each of the things they’ve given me (medicine, sodas food and even a new pair of flip flops), they refuse money when I try to repay them.  Nyoman will not let me give him money for my stay either. So I help with the chores and cooking around the “house,” buy whatever groceries they will let me and burn them many many CDs of the American music that they like.  

An unusual thing happened several nights after I got here though.  On Friday, I asked Bagong early in the afternoon to take me with him to the market when he went to buy ingredients for dinner.  I wanted to pay.  He managed to divert the subject.  I later asked Nyoman the same thing.  He indicated that I still wasn’t well enough to eat their spicy food so I should just get something to eat at Cafe C’est Bon, where  Ali and a friend of his where playing guitar that night.  We were all planning to go.  He still never answered what they were eating. 

I went to check the internet (posting my last blog entry).  When I came back, they were all gathered around the table eating peanuts. “Aren’t you coming to Cafe C’est Bon?” I asked them.  I knew they were anxious to support Ali.  “Later,” was the answer.  I was confused.  “Aren’t you eating dinner there?”  Mumble, mumble.  It was 7:30 and they hadn’t started cooking dinner yet – strange for them as they usually begin around 6:00.  Putting this all together, I began to suspect they weren’t eating tonight either here or at Cafe C’est Bon.  Now I was more confused.  I had never known them to skip any meals, but given their hesitation to discuss it, I got the feeling that for some reason they didn’t have the money for dinner that night but were too proud to say so.  “What are you guys eating for dinner tonight?”  The laughed off my question. 

I felt awful … and very protective.  These sweethearts had been buying all kinds of things for me.  My brothers were not about to go hungry while I was around.  I decided immediately to buy them some dinner from the restaurant and bring it back.  Nyoman went with me to Cafe C’est Bon and we caught the beginning of Ali’s act.  We ordered our food plus 7 orders of Nasi Campur (local chicken and rice dish) to go.  Nyoman suggested I just order 2 portions and they would all share, as I had seen them do on a number of occasions.  Although they’re all in their mid-twenties, they still seem like “growing boys” to me so I insisted we buy a full portion for each person.  Besides, when I’m hungry, I can eat a full plate and they do more physical labor during the day than I so I’m sure they’re hungry enough for a plate each.

After a minute, I thought, this is silly.  They want to be here to support Ali and the only reason they’re not here is because they can’t afford to eat.  But we’re bringing food from this very restaurant back to them.  They might as well come and eat it here.  It felt wrong to be there at the restaurant enjoying food and Ali’s music without them.  So I asked Nyoman to call them, fill them in  on the situation and invite them to come.  They were ecstatic.  

Shark was the first to come bounding in with a big grin on his face.  The thought of a big plate of food clearly pleased him.  Wayan, Putu and Bagong followed and piled in around the table.  The others had apparently gone home before getting the call. 

During part of the meal, they spoke Balinese to each other.  When I asked what they said, Bagong kept waving me off, imploring them not to tell me.  Wayan reported that Bagong had suggested no one eat the meat in their food so they could take it home and use it for a soup for tomorrow.  Bagong blushed, mortified.  I assured them there would be plenty of food tomorrow.  

fresh mackeral for dinner

They won’t let me pay for every meal so sometimes we share 5 fish and a pot of rice among 7 or 8 of us.  Even when they do let me buy, they still insist that one chicken (and these aren’t the full size chickens we get at the grocery in the States) will be more than enough for 8 people.  So I do what I can and otherwise am adapting to their concept of “enough.”  I’m never hungry, but I do worry that they’re not getting enough protein or nutrition – green vegetables are only on the menu when I cook.  Since this is just a temporary situation for me, I’m not too worried about my own nutrition.

As I’ve gotten progressively more healthy from my cold each day, I’ve been joining more and more in the chores which seem to go on and on all day, but they don’t feel like work since we’re always doing them together and having fun.  Cooking here takes much longer than at home.  Nothing is bought ready to cook, most especially the chickens which we buy live.  It’s been an interesting mental adjustment picking out and carrying home the live animal that will become our lunch or dinner.  Typically, when the Balinese go to buy a chicken, its feet are tied together.  To transport the chicken home, the Balinese hang the chicken upside down by the string around its feet on a plastic hook on the motorbike. The first chicken I bought with Bagong had the disgrace to ride home this way and I was troubled the entire time.  It’s bad enough we’re killing the poor thing, I thought, but to have her be so uncomfortable for the last 30 minutes of her life was more than I could stand.  All the guys think I’m silly about this, but now each chicken I buy rides home right side up in a plastic bag with her head poking out, a modified version of the way people carry little dogs around in bags that look like purses.  Although I’m sure the chicken is still scared, I figure it’s got to be far less frightening than flying (not of her own accord) at 40 kph upside down hung from a hook on a motorbike with the blood all rushing to her head.  

(left to right) Ali, Shark, Wayan and Bagong under a banyan tree

At any rate, these days I spend most of my time helping the guys care for the grounds (my official job is to water the flowers and plants), sometimes cooking, sometimes helping to clean up after meals.  It seems like something is always going on so between everything, I haven’t found much time for writing.  I miss the writing very much, but am also enjoying living somewhat like a traditional Balinese person for a while.

Funny.  When I came here I wanted very much to be part of a homestay where I could really become part of a family.  I had envisioned more a traditional nuclear family.  I’m sure “living with” a bunch of Balinese guys in their early to mid-twenties is not exactly a traditional experience (actually, I’m the only one sleeping on the property but all our waking hours are spent together so it feels like living with them), but I couldn’t be happier than I am for the time being with the family I’ve found.

Regarding my Bali Eco tour post the other day, the additional photos have now been added to the “Photos of Her Adventure” page and video is now available by clicking here.

POST-SCRIPT (September 23):  It’s come to my attention since writing this entry that I had some misunderstandings in Amed and would like to correct some impressions I had and about which I wrote.  I thought, based on the portion sizes that I saw the Amed Scuba guys eating, that they didn’t have enough money to eat and that they were hungry.  In fact, they simply don’t eat a lot.  Even when I cooked or bought food and served them Western sized portions which I thought they would gobble down, they still ate the same amount as usual and it turns out a lot was left over.  I guess eating only Balinese portions and not our super-sized Western ones is the way these guys stay looking so fit and without lots of “junk in the trunk” like they tease me about having!

Also, the night that I thought they didn’t have money to eat and I bought them food at Cafe C’est Bon, they were apparently teasing me and had already eaten.  Jokers that they are, they were probably also pulling my leg telling me that Bagong suggested saving the meat.  I guess this just means I need to learn to speak Balinese!  Then I won’t misunderstand as much and also can catch them when they try to play a joke on me.  So look out boys! 

My apologies to these guys if I made them sound like paupers – they’re definitely not -  and for misunderstanding the situation.  They made me feel like a queen during my time in Amed and I’m most appreciative of their friendship, generosity and hospitality.

I started my second motorbike roadtrip exploring Bali 8 days ago.  Between that time and now, I’ve had internet access only once as the small villages around the island are not yet connected to the ether.  I can’t blame being behind on my stories entirely on the internet though as I’ve also had a complete lack of time to write as well.  So now I’m finally hitting the keyboard again.  I’ve been missing it a lot.

the view from Kintamani

Although I’m not always an organized person, I’m typically a pretty organized thinker so instead of launching into some stories about the roadtrip that I’m still in the middle of as you might expect I would do, I’m going to fill you in on some stories from Ubud on which quite behind.  In between the current roadtrip and the one I took with Munawar a couple weeks ago, I took the only organized tour I’ve been on thus far during my trip:  an “Eco Bicycle Tour.”  

Now I have to confess, I’m not sure what exactly about this tour made it eco-friendly – perhaps that we were using bicycles (known here as “push bikes”) instead of motorbikes? – but the trip itself was wonderful.  I was picked up in a shuttle bus from my hotel in Ubud and driven, along with 9 other people, about an hour and a half away to a village called Kintamani that sits at the top of a mountain and overlooks one of eight volcanos on Bali as well as a large lovely lake.  On the opposite side of the lake is a village, isolated even by Bali standards, who have the unique distinction of not burying or cremating their dead, but laying their bodies out in the cemetery exposed to the elements to decompose naturally.  As we gazed out at this splendid view (mountains and lakes, not decomposing bodies), we ate a yummy breakfast of chocolate and banana pancakes (the pancakes here are more like thick crepes than what we call pancakes in the States), fried rice and fresh fruit.  

jackfruit tree

Bellies full, we hopped back in the shuttle buses to a coffee plantation that also served as sample garden of the many varieties of herbs, spices, fruits and vegetables grown on Bali.  We saw and smelled lemongrass and curry leaves as well as some additional spice leaves which don’t exist in the States. We saw jackfruit, mango and salak (the “mystery” snakeskin fruit I encountered in “In Asia at Last!”) trees.  And remember the special coffee that was an obsession of Jack Nicholson’s character in the movie the Bucket List?  It was called Luwak and cost $100 per cup.  His character was distraught toward the middle of the movie when he learned that the coffee received its distinctive flavor when the fruit containing the seed that eventually becomes the coffee is eaten whole by an animal called the Asian palm civet.  The animal can’t digest the seed which is excreted, still whole, the collected, washed and roasted.  Well … it turns out the palm civets are native to Bali and this plantation had several that were happily snoozing as we wandered the grounds.  

Asian palm civet

The plantation guides walked us through the coffee roasting proess and then treated us to same samples of coffees and teas from ingredients grown from their land:  Balinese coffee (very strong), hot chocolate from homegrown cacao (best hot chococate I’ve ever had!), ginseng coffee (my favorite), lemongrass tea (tasted like a mild form of ginger) and ginger tea (very strong … delicious!).  They also had homegrown tobacco and papers so customers could roll their own cigarettes.  I’m not a smoker, but figured this was something I’d like to try.  I struggled as I attempted to  roll my own cigarette until a more experienced member of the group took pity on me and took over.  Our group of 8 watched expectantly, waiting for this non-smoker to cough and splutter after my first toke.  I took a page out of Bill Clinton’s book, however, and didn’t inhale, disappointing those who were waiting to laugh at my coughing fits.  After about 3 puffs, I confirmed that, while this was a novel experience, smoking (even with homegrown Balinese tobacco) wasn’t for me.  

roasting coffee beans

different types of coffee and tea

Post-coffee and tea sampling, the plantation folks gave us samples of tropical fruits some of which were already familiar to me:  salak, passion fruit, mango and papaya.  New fruits to me were tamarillo (they look like a plum tomato outside, but have black seeds on the inside and taste sweeter and more fruit-like than a tomato) and mangosteen (looks like an apple with round hard leaves on the outside. The inside is a hard shell with soft, white pulpy sections in the middle.  You eat the the white pulpy part.  It tastes sweet, and kind of like pineapple with a completely different texture. I’m a fan!).  

checking out the local flavor

Of course after all these free samples, these marketing geniuses wisely took us to their giftshop where they sold everything we had just tasted along with about 50 different kinds of additional spices.  They also had Luwak coffee for that bargain basement price of $100 per box.  One nice thing about traveling light as I’m doing is that I’m not tempted to buy anything because I know I don’t have room to carry it.  It makes browsing much more relaxing!  

spices

At last we were ready to hop on our bikes and start the hard work  … of coasting downhill for about 2-3 hours.  Easy on the legs, but hard on the hands for constantly braking.  We were offered the option of doing a fast ride which included a lot of uphill work.  Naturally, all but one really fit German guy (who, incidentally, happened to be a juggler) chose the slow downhill, picture-taking mode.  

high fives with the local kids

Our guide told us in advance that we would feel like celebrities during our ride because the children would run out into the street and line up to give us “high fives” and everyone would shout hello to us.  They weren’t kidding.  I must have given over 100 “high fives” that day and said “hello” about 200 more times.  The children and adults alike happily posed for photos.  In fact, many requested that their photos be taken and then thanked me for doing so.  A photographer’s dream, for sure! I must say that it’s nice to feel welcomed by the Balinese and not resented.

The first stop on the bike tour was at the home of a family who specialized in making bamboo products: baskets, mats, woven bamboo ceilings.  As we walked through their compound, I noticed a home gym setup that was straight out of a Fred Flinstone cartoon.  The weight lifting bench was made of wood and each of the weights were different sized round wheels of concrete.  

a gym Fred Flintstone would have been proud of

ari ari (placenta) marker

Bamboo in Bali is used to make everything imaginable.  It’s used for clothesline, drinking cups, baskets, walls, ceilings, fences, ladders and a number of things I’ve forgotten to list. In addition to learning about the multiple uses for bamboo, we saw a typical Balinese kitchen and learned about the physical layout of the family compound.  The compound, our guide explained, is like the body; it has a head a torso and legs.  The head end of each compound is always the end closest to Mount Agung, considered the holiest mountain in Bali.  This end contains the family temple.  At the “feet” end of the compound is animal pen.  The family lives and cooks in the “body” with sleeping quarters closest to the temple end and the kitchen closest to the animal pen.  Because the Balinese believe the spirits of their ancestors return to their former homes, no Balinese can sell their family compound because that would be like selling the ancestors themselves.  Another interesting aspect of the family compound concerns the placenta of each person living there.  The Balinese believe that the placenta and blood of each baby is holy and akin to the baby’s brothers so at birth, these (called “ari ari”) are saved and placed inside a hollowed-out coconut shell.  The shell is then buried in front of the northernmost building in the compound.  Ari ari’s of boys are buried on the right side of the building and girls’ are buried on the left.  The burial spot of each ari ari is marked with a special stone and three sticks tied together to form what looks like the spine of teepee. 

We left the home of the “bamboo family” and rode our bikes down quiet country roads through miles and miles of rice fields and temples.  We passed men working in fields and weaving mats out of palm leaves for roofs.  I saw women carrying baskets of leaves, large bundles of firewood, buckets of concrete and entire tree trunks on their heads.  Men everywhere were massaging their prized fighting roosters for cockfights I have yet to see.  We stopped at the home of a woodworker and then at the home of a  family of rice farmers. It was quite an education in the lives of Balinese who are not involved in the tourist industry (although even these families are affected – they received a small stipend for allowing us to view their homes and businesses).  

Balinese man working by the roadside

In general, the main roads in Bali are pretty well maintained.  The roads not considered main roads, however, range from pretty good to filled with potholes.  Unfortunately, this particular fell into the latter category.  I tried filming as I was coasting to give you an idea of what it’s like to ride down a lovely road in Bali … and almost fell off my bike a couple of times as I would ride right into a pothole when I wasn’t watching the road.  After coming close to breaking both my arm and my camera equipment, my survival instincts won out over my photographic ones (I included my “near spill” in the footage … it’s obvious!)  

a beautifully laid out lunch

We finished our interesting and interactive bike ride with a tasty lunch that was beautifully presented in clay pots lined with banana leaves.  Although we hadn’t exactly burned many calories during our “coast,” we were still hungry and smoke duck, smoked chicken, lawar (Balinese vegetable-based dish), mie goreng (fried noodles) and nasi goreng (fried rice) hit the spot. As usual, I was so hungry, I forgot to photograph my multi-colored feast.  I did remember to photograph our fresh fruit salad dessert, however, which was just as lovely.

dessert

The “Eco Tour” was offered through Bali Budaya Tours and I would highly recommend it to anyone in or near Ubud.

 Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.  

To see video from my Eco Bike tour (including my near wipe out) click here.

This is just a quick post from Southwest Bali to let you know that I’m on another jaunt around the island by motorbike – this time I’m driving!  I’ve gotten much better on the motorbike but I must say that it  took nerves of steel driving through Denpasar (that’s the city in Bali that has the airport) but that should be the worst of the trip.  

I’m currently in Tanah Lot on the coast where there is an amazing temple built on a rock that comes right out of the ocean.  Non-Balinese are not permitted to enter the temple and the Balinese can only access it in low tide because otherwise it becomes a mini-island.  It’s really an amazing sight (which I’ll share with you later).  There’s not public internet access here – the hotel I’m staying at is letting me use their computer briefly … just long enough to send a few emails and post this story, but I’m unable to upload photos so I’ll just tell you a little bit about it until I can post them. 

I got here yesterday afternoon just in time for sunset.  There was (not surprisingly in Bali) a ceremony going on so the air was perfumed with incense and chanting.  The temple was an amazing sight in its own right, but really came to life as the Balinese, dressed in their ceremonial best, ascended the stairs to pray.  I got up at 5:30 this morning to catch sunrise on the temple and was also treated to glimpses of fisherman in small charming wooden boats and crabs scurrying across the rocks as I approached.

Later this morning, my friend Juha and I will head north to the mountains to the Danau Bratan area (I’ll also post a map of the roadtrip when I’m able) which should have lovely views of a mountain lake.  We’ll pass through many small villages on the way, including an area known for growing deliciously sweet strawberries.

Back soon … Putu.

So there I was, in the midst of a cremation procession (I can’t say that everyday) and I could barely contain my excitement.  As the parade advanced toward us, I noticed groups of people carrying different objects. The first man carried a long white cloth and about ten women walked behind him each holding a segment of the cloth. Immediately after them, four men passed in front of me carrying an empty wooden coffin that looked like a bed and was painted bright yellow with other colorful accents. Next in the procession came a small tower that appeared to be about five feet tall. It was also painted in bright cheerful colors and was attached to a bamboo grid platform born by 9 adolescent boys. At the base were a variety of local fruits. Strips of young coconut leaves waved in the wind from the top.

The second tower to approach was larger and was born by about 20 men on a wider bamboo grid. It looked to be about eight feet tall. Sitting at the top of the colorful tower, there appeared to be a regal-looking chair sheltered from the sun by a happy yellow silk-tasseled umbrella. The seat of the chair was stuffed with different kinds of grasses and about five fabrics of different colors and lengths flowed from the front of the seat like carpets.

wade coming up the hill

Both of these towers, however, were dwarfed in size, color and detail by the last and largest tower, the wade, which was so heavy it had to be carried by 50 men who still strained under its weight. As the twelve-foot tall tower approached me, I noticed two men riding in the top tier, each hanging on for dear life as the men carrying the tower ran and twirled it in the streets. Sometimes the weight of the wade was too much for its carriers who would collapse under it making me wonder if the tower and men inside would fall to the ground. The men in the wade were there to secure the body of the deceased which was wrapped in a white sheet and was also riding in the tower. Given all the spinning and near drops, it was amazing that the men and their precious cargo didn’t all spill out. Luckily that didn’t happen although sometimes it apparently does as I was advised that there exists a special ceremony to take the body back in the event it falls and touches the ground.

Following the wade was a throng of people with a twenty-five or thirty member band of musicians playing upbeat festive Balinese music that contributed to the mood that more closely resembled Mardi Gras than a funeral procession.

When the men carrying the wade approached the intersection at the top of the hill, they began running in a circle, spinning the wade to confuse the spirit of the dead woman so that she could not return home. As they spun, some of the carriers fell to their knees causing the wade to dip very precariously. Apparently it was well attached to the bamboo grid, however, and didn’t fall off. The men recovered, rebalanced and surged forward at a run. Sometimes the power lines were too low for wade to pass and a man carrying a long bamboo pole with a V-shaped tip would lift up the line so the wade could pass under.

musicians in the procession

Mun and I hopped on our motorbike and took up the rear guard of the procession which passed right in front of Ayu and Raka’s house. Mun, who had been sick on and off the past few days, was exhausted and didn’t share my enthusiasm for the cremation ceremony. So he stayed at the house where Ayu and Raka kindly let him take a nap while I continued to follow the procession on foot. I had only walked about one block when I heard a friendly voice behind me say, “Hi. How are you? Where are you from?” I turned to see a handsome young Balinese man smartly dressed in black and white with a video camera in his hand.

He introduced himself as Wisnu and told me that he was the great-grandson of the woman being cremated. He was in charge of making a video of the proceedings for the family and invited me to join him! I eagerly agreed and all of a sudden, instead of filming and photographing the events from the rear, I was now escorted to the front and given, along with Wisnu, the choicest spots from which to record the celebration. Wisnu and I would run to the front of the procession, film for a bit as they passed us and then run to the front again. I wanted to capture the event both on video and with still pictures. Without Mun there to assist me, I often had the movie camera in my left hand, my D5 in my right hand and a lens cap in my mouth as my pants pockets were completely inaccessible under my sarong. It was probably the most exhilarating photography I’ve ever done.

wade making its way into the cemetery

The procession turned down a quiet street and shortly thereafter into a field that apparently served as the village cemetery. Wisnu and I were in front of the wade at this point, walking backwards over the uneven terrain, filming as we went. Several times I tripped over the back of my long sarong which kept getting caught under my shoes. The men carrying the wade were having just as difficult a time controlling their cargo and Wisnu warned me that if I fell, I would simply be trampled by the wade-bearing men as they would be unable to stop their momentum. Already sensing that this would be the case, I ceased filming momentarily, hiked up my sarong and moved to higher ground.

About 100 yards into the cemetery, the men set the wade down near a small hill about 15 feet high upon which was constructed a wooden table covered by a temporary bamboo pavilion wrapped in white sheets. The musicians took their seats in the field and the music ceased. The four men who had been carrying the empty casket placed it on the table. Several men took the body down from the top of the wade, placed it on what looked like a stretcher made of bamboo and carried it to the top of the hill. They processed around the pavilion three times, shaking the body somewhat violently as they escorted it. I think the significance of the three circles was the same as in the Memukur, each pass representing the three levels of existence: the lower beings, humans and the gods. After the last pass, they placed the body in the casket and threw the stretcher on the ground to the side. Women carrying large black tubs on their heads walked up the hill and about 15 immediate family members gathered around the body.

removing the body from the wade

I could see that they were performing various mini-ceremonies around the body but couldn’t really see what was going on. Wisnu was at the top of the hill filming, but I assumed that my invitation to join him had only included the procession and not this intimate gathering which was family only. I joined the rest of the villagers and more distantly related family in the field and put a long lens on my camera to resume photography from there. As I looked around the field, I noticed about 5 westerners photographing the event, presumably equally interested in this fascinating custom. I turned my attention back to the people around me and was surprised and amused to see a man selling cigarettes walking through the crowd and hawking his wares. It was most definitely a different atmosphere from any funeral I’d ever attended! 

pouring holy water on the body

I looked at the top of the hill again and was astonished to see Wisnu beckoning me to come up. It was obviously such an intimate gathering at the top of the hill, I thought I must be imagining things. “Who me?” I indicated, pointing to myself and giving him a quizical look. Yes, he nodded. Come up here.

I must have turned fifty shades of red to match my kebaya as I walked up the hill, hoping everyone had also seen Wisnu invite me, imagining though that they did not and were wondering who was the presumptuous white western woman invading this special ceremony. At the top of the hill, he introduced me to several of his relatives and then cleared a space for me at his great-grandmother’s feet so that I had an ideal view of the ministrations to her body. I photographed quickly, thinking that my invitation to be present was merely momentary. Wisnu again surprised me when, instead of indicating that I should return to my place at the bottom of the hill, he began explaining what was going on. I filmed and listened simultaneously. 

The body was still wrapped in a sheet. Several people on either side of the coffin held a piece of cloth that looked like cheesecloth about a foot over the body. There were already flowers strewn on top of the cloth as well as on the body itself and the priest was pouring container after container of water over the flower-covered cloth. Some containers were lovely ceramic while most others were humble plastic baggies. Wisnu explained that the water symbolized cleansing and each container of water came from different rivers and temples all over the island; each having been specially gathered for this ceremony. There are obviously a lot of different rivers and temples with holy water on the island; I must have seen at least 20-30 containers of water poured through the cloth and onto the body.

women waiting at the bottom of the hill

Wisnu explained that unlike many Balinese, his great-grandmother had not been buried after she died but was immediately cremated. Apparently, his family was wealthy enough to afford the expensive ceremony (in their case around $6,000). Most families have to save money for many years to afford a cremation during which time their dead lie buried in the cemetery. “Immediate” has a different meaning in Bali though than it would in the west. Wisnu’s great-grandmother died 20 days before she was cremated. Those who have money for immediate cremation will consult the pednanda (high priest) for the first auspicious date dictated by the Balinese calendar to hold the cremation ceremony. Until then, body is laid out in the bale of the family compound (the bale is a special room in the compound used only for the most important ceremonies). Immediately (in the western sense) after death, the body is injected with enbalming fluid to preserve it and prevent decay during the wait for the cremation. The Balinese also use this time to prepare the myriad of offerings used in the ceremony, build the wade and accompanying towers, gather the waters from all over the island and many other things that take place “behind the scenes.” Everyday during the time that the body is lying in state, special offerings are brought to it, including coffee, tea and symbolic meals.

box with great-grandmother's personal belongings

At this point, five women carried another white sheet from the bottom of the hill to the top and placed it on the body. They unrolled the sheet which contained flowers, rice and some belongings of the dead woman. They also brought a small white wooden box whose contents they emptied one at a time and placed on the body. Mostly, these were clothes and personal items that belonged to the lady. They laid her with her sarong and kebaya on top of her body, pulled a brand new pair flip-flops from their plastic wrapper and placed them near her feet. Money and Chinese coins were put in the coffin along with the rest. I have read that the purpose of a Balinese cremation ceremony is to free the body of all worldly attachments so I presume that was the reason the family was burning all of the woman’s belongings along with her body, preparing her soul to be reunited with the Supreme Being as a first step to her reincarnation. Before leaving the hill, the family last placed under the table a bamboo basket of green leaves that I guess also contained some offerings.

body prepared for cremation

At one point during all the ministrations, Wisnu had left the hill, telling me to stay and keep photographing. That was all the encouragement I needed. He returned a while later with a bottle of water for me. My God! Could this guy make me feel any more like an honored guest?! Throughout our time on the hill, I thanked him profusely for allowing me this rare close-up glimpse into a ceremony I’d been reading about since before my trip began. I told him repeatedly what a very special gift he was giving me and that I considered it an honor and a privilege to be allowed into such an intimate family moment. His reason for inviting me, he said, was so that I could tell other westerners about Bali and their traditions, hopefully enticing others to come see for themselves. No problem, I thought! But what about the other western photographers lingering in the field that day (who I’m sure were not happy to have a white woman “embedded” with the family “ruining” their photo opps)? Why didn’t Wisnu invite them for a close-up view too? Was it just because he and I had already chatted in the street? Or because I was the only one wearing a traditional Balinese costume (if so, thank goodness for the ceremony that morning!). Whatever his reason for inviting me, I will be forever grateful.

Putu in front of the wade

I left the pavilion with Wisnu and the rest of his family and we took our seats at the bottom of the hill. We visited, I was introduced around, brought more water and we took turns taking photos of each other with the family. Wisnu invited me to climb through the bamboo grid and pose with the wade, one of many things he encouraged that day that I wouldn’t have dared to do uninvited – and barely dared to do anyway.

Shortly, a few men brought containers of propane gas, lit a fire under the table and began the actual cremation process. Wisnu told me that in years past, they would use a special kind of wood under the table as firewood to burn the body. Although it gave off a pleasant odor, it would often take 3 hours or more to complete the cremation so now, they just used propane gas.

Again, he surprised me when he proposed that we have our photo made together … with the burning sarcophagus as the backdrop. Definitely a different kind of funeral than those we have in the west! But I figured he knew the ropes so I joined him for what has to be the most surreal photo of my entire trip.

with Wisnu (I can't believe this is really happening!)

While we were waiting for the cremation to be complete, Wisnu and I chatted. He told me that people jealous of his family had prayed to their gods for rain that day, while he and his family had implored their own gods to keep the rain at bay. The two groups of gods did battle among themselves and Wisnu’s gods had obviously won as the rain had stopped early that morning. I wondered whether the jealous families had pulled a fast one though, as the sun had come out and was starting to get downright hot. At the last cremation, Wisnu said, they weren’t so lucky. It poured rain which obviously meant that his family had lost the village “battle of the gods.”

It took about an hour for the body and all the accoutrements to completely burn. To hasten the process, a sheet of metal was placed on top of the coffin focusing the intense heat. In the meantime, more introductions were made and I was invited to join the family for a mini-picnic before the feast. They had obviously had the event catered, one of the many expenses incurred, and I was presented with plastic containers of traditional Balinese snacks: doughy rice cakes topped with shredded coconut, slices of cucumber, slices of tart mango and fried rice. A number of Wisnu’s cousins wanted to sit with me, but would get very shy when I complied. His sweet friendly mother, however, practically plopped in my lap and we chatted as much as we could through the language barrier when Wisnu wasn’t translating for us. They invited me to attend the family banquet after the ceremony was complete. 

with Wisnu's family

Eventually, the burning was finished and the family reassembled on the hill. They doused the smoldering ashes with hollow bamboo lengths filled with water until the pieces were cool enough to touch. The ground was still very warm from the heat though and I could feel it through my sandals as I photographed the family who were sifting through the ashes. They picked out fragments of bone and the Chinese coins and placed them in conical shaped woven bamboo baskets. More water was poured through the baskets rinsing the ash off and the clean contents were transferred to a white cloth-lined basket. When Wisnu saw they were at this stage of the ceremony, he excused himself saying “Oh! This is something I have to do.” I guess it’s required that all family members participate in this segment.

The memory card on my camera filled at this point. No more photos; only video and those batteries were about to die. I prayed to any god that would listen that they would last as long as possible. 

 When all the bones and coins were gathered, a woman carrying the basket containing them walked down the hill and over to the medium sized tower I had seen processed through the streets earlier. The basket was placed in the seat of the “chair” on the tower and several women began handing the priest baggies of different colored liquids – clear, green, brown – along with handfuls of noodles. These were all placed/poured in the basket on the chair seat.

the family gathering bone fragments and Chinese coins

At this point, the memory card on my video camera filled. Almost simultaneously, a text message from Mun brought me back to Earth. “It’s almost 4:00 and we still have to drive back to Ubud. How about if you wrap it up and come get me?” Even without the ability to record anymore, I longed to stay with the family until the very end of the ceremony. But that involved a procession to the river where the bones and coins would be deposited as well as a full-blown family feast. It would likely be another three or four hours before the village dispersed and went home. Mun had already given up a whole day of his one-week vacation on Bali to my ceremonial obsessions. It was time for me to go. It was with great regret that I said goodbye to Wisnu and his kind family for the privilege of including me in this very special family ceremony. I can only repay him by honoring his request that I do what I can to tell others about it.

To see video of this amazing event, click here. NOTE: The video is almost 30 minutes long. Don’t be scared – you will not see an actual body. I gave my family a sneak preview a couple days ago and they reported that it took a while to download, but finally played. Just so you don’t think you’re doing anything wrong, here’s Dad’s input: “Since the files are so large we would get a “stack error” message. All we had to do was click on that box to clear the error message and then let the file continue to download. There is a little “gearwheel” in the lower right part of the screen that continues to spin letting you know something is going on. It took another 4-5 minutes to finish downloading and then it played fine. So patience is required.” But I assure you, it’s worth the wait!

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.